


Like A Night-Blooming Flower

by Viridis



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, Biting, Breasts, Cultural Differences, Denial, Drunkenness, Dubious Consent, F/M, Humor, Masturbation, Oral Sex, POV switch, Pining, Post-Coital Cuddling, Qun, Qunari, Qunari Culture and Customs, Qunari Physiology, Qunlat, Rough Sex, Sex, Sexual Tension, Shame, Shameless Smut, Size Kink, Slow Burn, Tamassrans, Voice Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-23
Updated: 2016-11-27
Packaged: 2018-08-24 04:48:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8357920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Viridis/pseuds/Viridis
Summary: She knows it is crazy; He knows it is inappropriate; Eventually neither one of them cares.
An unlikely romance, light on plot, heavy on pining, eroticism and cultural differences. Also, humor. :)
Tonight, in the desert, with emptiness all around,The sky, endless, the earth, desolate,Before my eyes the contradiction opened like a night-blooming flower. 
  - The Body Canto -





	1. Prelude

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fan fic and I am freaking out. Yes I am. 
> 
> Anyways. There is more to this story than smut, but if you are looking for some hot Qunari sexy times (and who isn't?), you are in the right place. Just give this peculiar couple some time to get there – it will be worth it! 
> 
> The title is shamelessly borrowed from The Body Canto. Obviously this story is not about the sort of philosophical awakening Ashkaari Koslun was talking about, but rather about two very different people becoming (painfully) aware of their needs and feelings. Koslun forgive me! No, seriously, forgive me.
> 
> *Warnings for masturbation, rough sex and dub-con/non-con(ish) elements. No rape, though. Also, Hawke swears a lot. And since English is not my native language, apologies for any mistakes. :)  
> *This story is fully written, I will update soon!  
> *Thank You So Much to the kind people who encouraged me and told me to go for it – you know who you are!

The first time Marian Hawke meets the Arishok of the Qunari people, she is floored.

She has heard rumors, of course – it is hard not to, after all, the Qunari are the talk of the town and their leader is in the center of that not-so-amiable attention. She has heard him described as intimidating, damn difficult and potentially a demon king incarnate. Hawke, being the self-absorbed cynic that she is, hasn't been paying the gossipers much mind; she knows from experience that people tend to exaggerate, especially when it comes to someone as alien (and uninvited) as the Qunari.

Therefore, as she is standing in the middle of the compound and waiting for the Arishok to appear, she is expecting to see just another horn head, maybe slightly bigger and nastier than the rest of the stoic giants, but nothing she couldn't handle. Yet the moment the Arishok walks on the dais, imposing and impossible, she forgets to breathe, and realizes that she sure as hell isn't prepared for... _this_.

The first thing to hit her is his size. There's no way around it, he is huge: almost eight feet tall, with rippling muscles and massive horns to boot, moving with unlikely fluid grace and utter confidence.

Hawke has met men who are big and gentle. The Arishok is not one of those men. He doesn't look cruel, exactly, but his face is like a mask: stern, distant, and almost impossible to read. His golden eyes don't reveal anything about his thoughts, apart from perhaps a small amount of irritation. He is impenetrable and, yes, bloody terrifying.

Hawke, who has the habit of automatically assessing her opponents, quickly puts the Arishok on top of her list of Folks Not To Mess With – all reckless as she may be at times, stupid she is not. But since she doesn't know much about the Qunari and her social skills are somewhat lacking (she is definitely better at messing with people than not messing with people), she is not sure how to go about that, and she spends a moment considering whether she should lower her eyes or return the Warlord's stare. She assumes submission would likely be polite and ease the situation, whereas boldness might appear more sincere and gain some respect.

Predictably, she goes for the latter: she aims to impress, and she knows that she wants – needs – this man's respect. They exchange a look. The Arishok's eyes don't linger on her, or anyone else for that matter, neither does his expression change.

He sits on his throne, calm and alien, his long white hair glistening in the sun, and waits.

And then, to Hawke's utter surprise, Fenris opens his mouth and speaks: she doesn't understand the words, but the language sounds rough and slow and beautiful, and the Arishok answers, and there is _the voice_. The deep, thunderous, melodic boom that makes Hawke's bones vibrate, and honestly, there are moments she is unable to understand what he is saying because she is listening to the voice rather than the words, like listening to a song's melody instead of lyrics.

Too much, she thinks. He is just too much to take in, he fills the space in a way that is almost crushing, he has a presence Viscount Dumar or any dignitary she has ever met could only dream of.

The meeting doesn't take long. It is intense and uncomfortable with chances of becoming disastrous – thanks to Javaris – but since Hawke had the good sense to bring Fenris along, things don't go completely sideways. They talk shortly, nothing comes out of the deal (which apparently didn't exist in the first place), irate Javaris pays up and leaves, and the unimpressed Arishok kicks the rest of them out.

As they walk through the gate and leave the compound, Hawke lets out a deep sigh and wipes her forehead.

“Fucking… _wow_ ,” she says. Varric nods. He looks slightly pale.

“Haven't been this scared since mother found out I'd been hiding her booze.”

“Did you see his horns! Maker.”

“Condescending asshole,” Anders mutters. He is openly sulking: it is no secret that he dislikes the Qunari, and Hawke hasn't quite figured out why he insisted on coming in the first place. Perhaps he was hoping to see a glimpse of some mistreated mage to get his fires going. Fenris hums affirmatively.

“Oh, he certainly is.” He pauses for a moment and gives Hawke a thoughtful look. “Still, I think he quite liked you.”

Hawke bursts into bright laughter.

“Liked me? He said I keep good company – meaning you.” She grimaces. “And I don't think _I have a growing lack of disgust for you_ counts as a compliment in these parts of Thedas.”

“Could be a great praise in the Qunari country, though,” Varric points out. The elf shrugs.

“Nevertheless.”

“Sure, Fenris.”

So she laughs it off. They head to The Hanged Man, spend the night drinking and playing cards (they have money, after all) and only after she gets back home and finally collapses on her bed, she wonders.

Was there something? Some kind of… connection? Hawke thinks about it for a while, but since she can't come to any clear conclusion, she lets the thought go and falls asleep.

***

The Arishok leans back with his tea cup and closes his eyes for a moment. He is tired; he is always tired nowadays, and this is not the kind of tiredness that goes away with sleeping. In fact, the thought of going to bed almost repulses him, because that means he has to wake up eventually, and every morning he wakes up and finds himself here, of all places, fills him with despair and impatience, which is very unlike him.

He sighs. The tea smells like home: spicy, sweet, soothing, and just a little bit bitter. He tries to concentrate on the familiar aroma, but he feels restless, and his mind wanders.

Those visitors he had today. The greedy dwarf and his… whatever they were. Associates? Another dwarf, way more clever than the one who calls himself Javaris, a withered-looking mage (brought along out of defiance or stupidity), a serious, tattooed elf who spoke Qunlat of all things, and a woman.

The woman. The Arishok taps his claws on the rim of his tea cup.

Hawke.

Before this morning he was not aware of her existence; by the early afternoon he knew where she lives, why she's in Kirkwall and who her friends are – and that her favorite color is red. The Qunari spy network is legendary for a reason. He also knows that Hawke has been working for a mercenary company in her past, and that nowadays she is an independent weapon for hire. She has a reputation for being efficient and honest, if not always respectable, and she picks her targets carefully.

The Arishok frowns. Something about her piques his curiosity.

He remembers the way she kept looking at him, terrified yet maintaining eye contact; he hasn't met many humans capable of doing that. And for whatever reason, he remembers the color of those bold eyes. Bright blue. Deep in the jungles of Seheron he has seen butterflies of that color: shiny, vivid and unexpected, and he has always considered them quite pleasing.

The Arishok comes to think that one might consider Hawke quite pleasing too – as far as humans go. She may be puny and her coloring strange, but all in all, he finds her oddly attractive. Still, since beauty doesn't carry much value to the ever-practical Qunari, and the Arishok is not an exception, he easily pushes all the thoughts of smooth skin, sapphire eyes, and silky black hair out of his mind.

He empties his cup, sets it on the side table, and grabs the report he was given been given a few hours back. He reads it over, again.

Marian Hawke.

Such a... strange little _bas_.

The Arishok is intrigued. And it's been a long time since he's been intrigued about anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vocabulary:
> 
> _Bas_ \- Literally, "thing;" foreign to the Qun; purposeless. Often used as a neutral term to describe non-Qunari people.


	2. Where The Arishok And Hawke Go For A Walk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some angst, some feels, some weirdness. And rain.

**Three Years Later**

 

“You worry over nothing.” The Arishok gives Kithshok a stern look. “I will be safe.”

“I don't trust the _basra vashedan_.“

“You can trust me being strong enough to handle them, if needed.”

“Of course, Arishok, but –“

Hawke, who is leaning against the Arishok's dais, tries not to laugh.

It doesn't happen often that anyone or anything manages to lure the Arishok outside the compound. He rarely goes anywhere because his presence has the tendency to freak people out, and the loud protests from his generals are always a pain to deal with. Today, however, he is feeling like going for a walk by the sea. It is taking a good amount of time to convince his number one Kithshok that a few guards and Hawke's presence are probably enough to keep their leader out of the harm's way.

“I don't like this.” Kithshok sulks and slips back to Qunlat, and Hawke loses track of his speech. They've been talking common, and as much as Hawke would like to think they are doing so for her sake, they could just be honing their linguistic skills. They are always trying to master things; Hawke suspects half of the Qunari here refuse to talk to her not because they are rude, but because they are not sure they can speak well enough. The other half, though – rude, definitely.

The Arishok lowers his chin, so that his massive, gleaming horns protrude forward, his shoulders rise.

“ _Noted_.”

It is funny how well she knows that small gesture now, how the Arishok does it when he is being stubborn or threatened. Kithshok knows it too and sighs. He is fighting a losing battle, but he is not ready to give up quite yet: he lowers his voice and whatever he is saying, the Arishok seems to be listening – or at least he is pretending, one can never really tell.

Hawke loses her concentration for a moment and lets her gaze roam around the dusty courtyard. She comes to think about the very first time she stood here and how terrified she was. Now... well, she is still pretty darn terrified, but at least she is used to it.

Five giant karashok are standing nearby, imposing and exotic in their red vitaars, waiting patiently. She smiles at one of the soldiers, a handsome fellow with curly horns and copper eyes. There is no responding smile, of course, but the man nods his head. It is more than she could have hoped for a year or two ago.

Hawke has been intrigued by the Qunari from the very beginning, and as the time has passed and she has become a regular visitor in the compound (to the point where the Arishok now allows her to come and go almost freely), her curiosity has only increased. She has spent so many dusty, exhausting afternoons socializing and asking questions, and although she finds many of their customs alien, she always makes an effort, and the Arishok seems to appreciate that. Still, to her great annoyance, the understanding of the Qun philosophy avoids her; mainly because no one really tries and explains it. Fenris knows something, but he is not a Qunari, and the Arishok refuses to teach her because it is not his role. And role is everything.

_I am no more equipped to explain than you are to understand_ , he said – an offense, really, but she has forgiven him. From what little Hawke has eventually learnt, she has realized there are many, _many_ things about the Qunari way of life she disagrees with, but then there are moments she appreciates their sense of order, predictability, and certainty.

The Arishok leaving for a walk was neither predictable nor safe, apparently. Hawke flutters her lashes at the grim Kithshok who has now turned to stare at her. Both men have crossed their arms and they look delightfully stubborn and gloomy.

“I will protect him,” she says in a silky voice. Kithshok clicks his tongue. Hawke tilts her head and flashes a toothy smile, which, while aggravating, is totally sincere – she quite likes the old general, but can't resist teasing him every now and then. The Arishok, however, is not amused: the look gives her is one of sharp annoyance. Her eyes meet his for a moment; she hesitates and then bows her head, out of respect rather than subordination, whatever difference that makes.

Fuck.

Hawke feels herself flushing. The thing is… as much as she is curious about the Qun, she knows that her true interest lies in the Arishok. Of course, it makes sense to be interested: the Arishok is important, he is the head of the Antaam and it is politically wise to pay attention and stay on his good side. But that is not the half of it – silly or not, she just plain likes him. She can't help it, she finds him fascinating and deeply intelligent, she feels that somewhere under his grim, scary exterior is a person worth knowing. She has seen glimpses of him.

So there is fondness, definitely, and on some days she'd go as far as to call it mutual. And then there is… attraction. This, quite unsurprisingly, dawned on her after she had a dirty dream about the Arishok taking her against the compound wall. It was so vivid: the crushing weight of his body, the heat of his hungry mouth, the powerful, merciless thrusts of his cock. She woke up hot and wet, and laughed for a good while afterwards, because the idea was _absurd_.

Hawke squirms a bit, disturbed by her thoughts. She has never been ashamed of her desires, but she knows the attraction is one-sided, and she accepts the fact with stoic practicality: with luck they might become great friends and be that as it may, the sexual thing will never happen. No problem. Some nights, after spending time with him, she has felt the urge so strongly she has touched herself and fantasized about his massive hands, but she doesn't have any delusions about the true nature of their relationship.

Indeed, why tease oneself with useless fancies, when she is actually quite happy with what they have, meeting every few weeks for a cup of tea and a stimulating conversation. It is pleasant, there is a good deal of respect, and they are friendly. It is enough. Still – going for a walk would be a nice change.

“Fine,” says Kithshok and raises his hands. “Go. But it will rain!”

Hawke glances at the sky. It does look pretty cloudy.

 

***

 

The sea is strange. It lies too calm today, like dim, green glass under the grey sky. The seagulls, not finding much wind to lift them higher, are flying around lazily and shrieking in metallic voices.

The Arishok is standing by the waterline, staring out to the sea. Far out to the sea. Hawke is crouching nearby, wiggling her slender fingers in the water. Every now and then she turns to look at him, but he is ignoring her.

He is used to being away. He is a warrior, and so he goes wherever he is needed, doing whatever is required: short missions, long campaigns, boring sieges, sneaky night-time attacks, suicidal shock troop rampages - he's done it all. He's been fighting with his bare hands as the last survivor of his team, he's been commanding troops of thousands and thousands... he's been brave, he's been afraid, he's been utterly, cruelly indifferent. The only constants in his life have been the Qun, the fighting and his men. And he'd like to think that despite his duties, which have been forcing him to spend more and more time in Qunandar, dealing with ceremonial and political bullshit, his true home is always with his soldiers, wherever they are. The Antaam is his life. And he prefers that to political machinations. Not that he doesn't enjoy those as well – he is too smart not to.

Still, right here, right now, his faithful group of soldiers and the small compound they've taken over, are not enough. He finds himself... missing. Missing the connection, the culture, the strong, strict, smoothly running society he is used to. And other things: familiar landscapes, warmer climate, brighter colors, richer scents. He misses Par Vollen. Hell, he almost misses Arigena at this point.

He is apart. So far apart.

Had he not been trained to suppress his dreams a long time ago, he would think he is having a nightmare. Oh, what he would give for that to be the case. But no, he knows better, this is not a dream: this is a cruel joke that has been played on him.

Hawke, who is always too observant for her own good, clears her throat.

“Must be hard,” she says. The Arishok returns to the present and turns to look at her, his eyes narrow and questioning. Hawke makes a helpless gesture. “Being here.”

He grunts. Hawke stands up and shakes the water off her fingers.

“I know you hate Kirkwall, but the seaside is nice, yes?” She looks at the Arishok's men, sitting in the sand a bit further away. They are playing a game with small pebbles, arguing and laughing. The Arishok is not looking at them, he is still staring at Hawke's fingers.

She has nice hands: narrow, but strong. He can see a crescent-shaped scar shimmering on one brown knuckle, and another one near her wrist. And she must have more under her clothing. The thought makes him uncomfortable: no matter how many years he has known Hawke, he is still having a hard time accepting the fact that she is a fighter.

Apart from certain Ben-Hassrath operatives, females are not supposed to fight. They are the ones to be protected. By the Antaam. By _him_. And yes: he would protect Hawke, without hesitation, even if she isn't one of theirs. But Hawke doesn't need his protection.

Everything here is wrong.

“It is going to rain,” the Arishok says.

“So I heard.”

They walk a little further, till they see a spot with protruding cliffs. Hawke finds a nice den under one of them and collapses in the sand. The Arishok follows her example. The guards pack themselves under another, larger cliff. And then it starts to rain, abruptly and hard.

The Arishok leans forward, so that his horns don't hit the stone behind him, and rests his arm against his knee. He is big and takes over most of the space, whereas Hawke sits with her knees against her chest, small, firm and compact. They have never been this close to each other before, and he becomes aware of her body's warmth right next to him, as well as of the fact that this closeness does not bother him.

Minutes crawl by. Hawke, who must be quite used to her Qunari companion's silence, doesn't push for any conversation – another thing he likes about her. She just stares out into the hissing rain. Every now and then, though, he notices her eyes wandering to inspect his arms and hands and claws. It is strange. The looks are lingering and intense, and then, all of a sudden, she sighs silently, and the scent of her arousal fills the space.

_Ah_. The Arishok makes an immediate decision to ignore it. He is aware that Hawke sometimes gets excited in his presence, as females tend to do; he knows his size and strength and the power he wields as the Arishok make him attractive. Outside the breeding it may all be ultimately meaningless and even inappropriate, but he is used to it and he can understand it. Still, it is rare for a human to show such interest, and to sense it so close… he shakes his head, to clear his mind.

Hawke blinks frantically and sits stiff, clearly hoping the Arishok hasn't noticed her reaction. He can feel her beginning to panic, she is looking for words, something to say, anything.

“Do you… so, is there someone waiting for you?”

The Arishok frowns. The question doesn't make much sense to him.

“Many people are waiting for our return,” he answers, and he enjoys the way his deep voice resonates in the small space. Hawke bites her lip. He can see she regrets the question; it was a slip of the tongue, then. Still, she pushes on:

“What I meant is, is there someone special waiting for you?”

“Special?”

“You know. A certain female – or a male, if you go that way.”

The Arishok stares at her, considering if the question is worth answering. He knows Hawke looks at things from the human's point of view, but he also knows she is very well aware that the Qunari don't have families, and their breeding is controlled, and she really shouldn't be asking such foolish questions. However, as it happens, there is an answer here he can give her.

“The Arishok usually has a tamassran following him as an advisor, and for other purposes. This time I was forced to travel without mine.” He shrugs. “She has a special position and she is expecting to meet me again, so yes, there is someone special waiting.”

Hawke looks curious.

“Other purposes?”

“Sexual release,” the Arishok says. Hawke shifts a bit, as if in pain, and her breathing changes, but she is trying to act nonchalant.

“Oh. She is your lover.”

“No,” he says, slightly offended. “We don't have such things.”

“Friends with… benefits?”

“The Qunari don't have sex with their friends. It is her role.”

Hawke thinks about it.

“How weird.”

“No: necessary and practical.”

They fall silent for a long time. Then:

“What do you call her? Your tamassran.”

“Rasaan.”

“Is she beautiful?”

The Arishok pictures her in his mind: delicate horns, silky white hair, saffron eyes. Such a familiar figure, slender, sharp, and utterly merciless.

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

Hawke bows her head. The Arishok looks at her, annoyed.

“Why does this bother you?”

The question makes her jump. Hawke turns to look at him: her eyes are brilliant topaz blue, nothing like Rasaan's. No – nothing like Rasaan's.

“It doesn't.”

She is lying, but he lets it go. They return to deep, comfortable silence. The rain is still falling outside their little shelter, but it has slowed down quite a bit. Won't be long now. The Arishok closes his eyes, enjoying the sounds and smells; it is not the tropical rain of Par Vollen, but it is fragrant and soothing.

He finds himself hoping he didn't have to go back to the compound.

Hawke changes her position, and her bony shoulder presses against his elbow.

Something is shifting between them. The Arishok can't quite put his finger, on it, but something is… different. Hawke is hard to ignore any day, but it seems like her presence has suddenly grown even stronger. He can feel her with piercing clearness: her sweet scent, her shallow breathing, her fluttering human heartbeat, which is so much faster than his own, and the small point where their bodies connect is very hard not to focus on.

Whatever this is, he is pretty sure he doesn't like it.

Hawke's soft voice breaks his concentration:

“Hey Arishok.”

He opens his eyes and looks at her: her expression is peculiar. He waits. She clears her throat.

“I was thinking – unless you have other plans for tomorrow, why don't you come over to my place, and let's have some dinner.”

The Arishok's eyes widen, his shoulders rise. _What?_ Hawke makes a nervous gesture with her hand.

“Dinner. You know. Food. You people do eat, right?”

He stares at her, incredulous. She wants him to come to her house? _Why_? Suddenly Hawke looks embarrassed and somehow desperate. She clears her throat again.

“I mean, well, we've known each other for so long and you've never – we've never, I mean –“ She stops abruptly and bites her lip. “Arishok?”

The silence between them grows and stretches until it is awkward. Finally the Arishok opens his mouth and he knows what he is going to say, but somehow the word that comes out is not the one he has decided on.

“ _Yes_.”

Hawke's face turns red, and something the Arishok has no name for flashes in her eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, according to Wiki, Rasaan's duty is to be the Arishok's advisor in all matters of Qun (philosophy) and accompany him on expeditions. They don't say she is there also to “pop his cork”, but since she is a tamassran… well. Of course not ALL tamassrans do that, they have different roles, but this would be a handy arrangement, no? (Say that in Zevran's voice!)
> 
> _Basra Vashedan_ \- Foreign trash
> 
> _Tamassran_ \- "Those who speak." A priestess who is charged with educating the young, interviewing captives, and assigning Qunari their roles within society. Exclusively a role for women. They control the Qunari selective breeding program; look after those Qunari who are not mentally able, or are physically impaired; provide psychological counseling and rehabilitation to those overwhelmed by stress and mental fatigue. This includes granting sexual relief to Qunari in need.


	3. Where Hawke Gets "Great Advice" And Kithshok Knows Better

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke and the Arishok prepare for dinner. It is... not pretty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right! Here's the big news: I've got a _beta_ for this story! Oh my goodness! [Fen](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Fen_Assan/pseuds/Fen_Assan), I can never thank you enough! You deserve diamonds! Crystal Graces! Fade-touched Aurum!
> 
> Fen kindly helped me not only with grammar, but also with wording. Furthermore, Hawke meeting with Aveline, Sebastian and Merrill in this chapter is her suggestion - the lazy author was trying to get away with penning a couple of funny messages, but this is so much better! :)

She is a fool.

She is a goddamn fool, and the chances are, she will be punished for it.

Hawke rubs her temples and swears out loud. What the hell was she thinking?

_Hey Arishok, why don't you..._

She hits her forehead against the table. Of all the stupid ideas she has ever had - and Maker knows she's had many - she invited the Arishok over. And the goddamn Qunari _bastard_ said yes.

He said yes.

And now she is wondering why. And wondering what he must be think about her. Does he believe she has some ulterior motive? Of course he does. Does she have an ulterior motive? Goddamnit. And what should she wear, what should she serve, what is she supposed to _do_?

Despite her relationship with the Arishok, Hawke's knowledge of the Qunari customs is not as good as she'd like. She may know how to behave when amongst them: stand still, look in the eye, don’t make silly gestures, don't lie, don't cry, and don't make the Arishok angry. It is pretty simple, really, and there are days she actually manages most of these. But she has never dined with them: the Arishok has served her tea occasionally, which is always a very unceremonial thing, but this dinner… well. She wants to do right.

The more Hawke contemplates things, the more distressed she gets. She needs support, she needs advice, and she needs it now. And as luck would have it, there is someone nearby: someone strong, sensible and reliable. Someone who will quite likely kick her ass, but that is a risk she is willing to take – she deserves it, after all.

 

***

 

The Viscount's Keep is busy, even this late in the afternoon. Muffled voices and faint footsteps fill the tall, echoing halls, as oh-so-important-looking people go on with their oh-so-important business. A group of bickering city officials are blocking the doorway: Hawke, who is in no habit of giving way to anyone, pushes straight through, ignoring their disgruntled protests, and heads for the stairs.

“Hawke.”

She lifts her eyes and sees bloody Seneschal Bran standing on top of the landing. He looks the way he always does: smug, polished, and absolutely detached. Hawke grimaces.

“Fuck you, Bran.”

“Charming as ever, I see. Still, I'd rather take my business to The Rose, if you don't mind.” The man steps aside gracefully to let her pass. “You don't look too good. Something wrong?”

Hawke stops and turns sharply. 

“On my way to see the Guard-Captain, you've got a problem with that, Bran?”

Seneschal raises his hands. 

“Oh, no.” He lets out an airy, bored sigh. “Go have your little Fereldan get together, by all means. Just remember: no beer, no dogs, and no brawling – it is office hours, after all. ”

“ _Fuck_ you.”

“Honestly, Hawke. As heart-warming as it is that you keep on trying, and as much as I appreciate the offer… you just are not my type, at all.”

Hawke groans in desperation and leaves before the urge to punch the man gets too great. She walks towards the barracks in the Southern wing, descends another set of stairs and stops by the Guard-Captain's door. She feels like busting right in, but there is a small (albeit very real) chance of her walking in on Aveline and Donnic, so she knocks.

“Come in.”

She pushes the door open.

As it happens, there is a man in the room – a tall man in white robes, with sky blue-eyes, and a cool smile. Hawke blinks in surprise. So much for worrying about any kind of misbehavior.

“Sebastian.”

“Hello, Hawke.” He looks at her and frowns. “Are you alright?”

Hawke bites her lip and moves her eyes to Aveline. The Guard-Captain is sitting behind her desk, steady as a rock, the steel of her armor and the red gold of her hair gleaming. She is frowning as well. That's when Hawke notices the third person in the room, a slender character lying on the floor by Aveline's chair. 

“Merrill?”

“ _Aneth ara_ , Hawke,” the elf peeps. She smiles brightly, but makes no effort to get up. 

“Are you... drunk?”

“Nooo. You are so silly.”

Hawke rolls her eyes. Whatever this unlikely meeting is about (Aveline, Sebastian, and Merrill? _Really?_ ), she does not want to know. She takes a deep breath and faces Aveline again.

“I may need you to put me out of my misery.”

Aveline stares at her.

“Okay,” she says finally. Hawke makes a desperate gesture with her hand.

“Or - maybe you could get me out of the country or something? I hear Orzammar is nice.” She spreads her arms. “At the very least, kick me!”

“I can kick you,” Sebastian offers. Hawke gives him a dirty look.

“Not very charitable, is it, _brother?”_

“Hey, you did ask.”

Aveline stands up and they both fall silent immediately. She crosses her arms and steps in front of Hawke with a stern, openly suspicious look on her face.

“Hawke. What did you do?”

“Ahh, see -” Hawke twists her hands. She is starting to get a feeling that coming here was just another very bad idea. She closes her eyes. “I may have invited the Arishok for dinner.”

One can hear a needle drop in the room – and then it all explodes. Everyone's talking at the same time.

“Hawke, _have you lost your mind?!_ ”

“Andraste preserve you, Hawke...”

“Oh! Oh! May I bring flowers? You could decorate your door! Do they like flowers?”

The noises are getting louder, Aveline’s hard, militant yelling mixes with Sebastian’s roughly accented voice and Merrill’s cheerful chirping.

“Please reconsider!”

“We are all Maker's children, Hawke, but it might be wise to use caution when dealing with the horned kind -”

“Wait, you could decorate his horns! So pretty -”

Hawke covers her ears and waits till the ruckus dies down. Aveline collapses on her chair and leans back. Her eyes are green as sea, and just as perilous.

“Well,” she says. “Isn't that something.” Her jaw tightens a bit more, if it is even possible. “What ever were you thinking?”

Hawke sighs.

“I was thinking that we are long time friends and I have never had him over.”

Aveline stays silent for a while. Hawke knows she doesn’t much care for the Arishok. There is a certain understanding, perhaps professional courtesy, between them - they are both commanding officers after all - but they don’t really know each other, and they don’t want to. Blighted stubborn people.

“So why then do you wish me to kill you, and kick you, and smuggle you to Orzammar, if you are so sure this is such a fine idea?”

“Bad nerves.” Hawke touches her lip with the tip of her tongue. “Listen, Aveline. I just wanted to talk to someone. And maybe get some friendly advice?”

“Oh, I will give you advice all right!”

“Strawberries!” Merrill, who has bounced off the floor at some point, dances around Hawke. “You should offer him strawberries!” She stops in front of her and grabs her hand. “And - and I could come and cook! What fun!”

Hawke snorts.

“You don't know how to cook, Merrill.”

“I do too!”

“Sweetheart, I've tasted what you call Woodsy Soup and, just – no. I am not going to feed the Qunari leader pine cones. But thanks for the offer.”

“Oh, boo!”

Hawke ignores Merrill’s miserable face and turns to Aveline again. The Guard-Captain sighs.

“You really are going to do this?”

“Yes.”

Aveline drums her fingers on her desk and then nods.

“I will have an extra patrol checking by your house tomorrow. Discreetly.”

“Aveline, for Maker's sake...”

“From my part,” Sebastian intervenes, “I must say that this is an extremely bad idea, and you should listen to me when I'm telling you not to do it.”

“Listen? _To you?_ ”

“Well, I am with the Chantry and the authority of -”

“Chantry can kiss my shapely ass!”

“Watch your mouth, young lady!”

“Exactly!” Aveline leans forward. “Now there’s fair advice for tomorrow: watch your mouth, behave yourself, and keep your pants on!” She points her finger at Hawke. “Truly, if you could try and not cause any diplomatic disasters, that would be wonderful.” Hawke groans.

“Oh, this just...” she turns, disheartened, and waves her hand. “ _Never mind_. Forget it, sorry I asked, just fucking forget it! Goodbye.”

“Wait!” Aveline stands up again. “Do you wish to borrow my heavy armor? Just in case?“

Hawke flees out the door. She can hear Merrill laughing and talking about flower wreaths, and Sebastian's voice reaches her just before she slams the door shut:

“ _Come and see me afterwards, so you can confess and repent!_ ”

 

*** 

 

If anything, Hawke would like to think she is resourceful. The meeting with Aveline was a disaster: so what? There are other options. Better options, surely, that Hawke is going to approach in a more subtle manner.

She pens a quick note:

 

_I invited the Arishok for dinner tomorrow night. Any suggestions, any advice is welcome, any knowledge you may have of the Qunari etiquette would be greatly appreciated. No moralizing, please! And don't fucking show up, just send me a message._

_Hawke_

 

The replies start arriving just a couple of hours later. The first one she receives comes neatly folded, adorned with a seal pressed into shiny red wax. The paper is expensive, but not overly fancy, and carries the emblem of the Dwarven Merchants Guild. It is written in a steady, practiced hand:

 

_A date with the Angry Oxman? By my ancestors' tits, Hawke, I will need to hear every detail! This will be such a horny (get it?) story! Seriously though, be careful. Sadly, I know nothing about the Qunari etiquette… certainly growling, and gloomy, long silences are expected? I know you can do both. Make me proud, kiddo!_

_Yours, Varric_

 

Hawke rolls her eyes, but can’t help smiling. So very Varric: cheeky, warm, clever - and totally unhelpful. Well, at least he isn't plain telling her to forget about it. She fetches a bottle of wine, as she has a feeling she will be needing a drink sooner or later, and sits by the fire to wait for the next reply. She doesn't have to wait for long.

The second message is a simple, hastily composed note that is hard to read, smells like elfroot, and has stains that suspiciously look like blood – and as she unfolds it, a couple of manifestos fall out.

 

_Oh come on! Advice, you say? How about cancel it? Maker's balls, woman, at least stay sober. You get kind of handsy when drunk (not that I am complaining, but the Arifuckingshok might). In case you need a healer afterwards, you know where to find me. Gotta go._

_A._

 

Hawke is into her second glass of _Vint-9 Rowan's Rose_ , before she dares to re-read the letter. Fucking Anders. Stay sober? How can he say all those things and expect her not to drown her despair in wine? And she certainly does not get handsy, thank you very much! _You wish!_

The last two letters are delivered by a burly sailor, and Hawke accepts them with a delighted wink - she is into her third glass, after all. She is also given a bottle of _Aggregio Pavali_. Thoroughly impressed, she unfolds the first note (it smells like smoke and salt) and stares at the wild, bold letters that billow over the slightly sticky parchment:

 

_Andraste's holy knickers, Hawke, you want to fuck him! I knew it! I fucking knew it. The Crabby Giant could certainly use a good tumble. Just be aware that you won't be able to walk for a week, take this from someone who has been there. Not with him, obviously, but there was this Vashoth sailor once… nevermind. Anyways, wear red, show cleavage, no braids, no underwear and be sure to smell nice – they can smell fucking everything. Oh, and don't go licking his body paint, it is poisonous. Foodwise? Give him some raw meat, and an axe._

_Kisses, -bela-_

 

Hawke covers her burning face. What did she expect, really? Ohhh that filthy Rivaini… how the hell did she know about her pathetic desires anyway?! Whatever. No matter what Isabela thinks, _nothing_ improper is going to happen tomorrow. That’ll show her!

She empties her glass and makes a mental note to air out her fine red wool gown. Then she opens the last message. She can see it is likewise written by Isabela, but not from her. This is from the one person she is expecting to actually be able to help her. She begins to read eagerly:

 

_Hawke, if you truly are going to go through with this, I have two words for you: spices and sweets. The Qunari enjoy both, so that should help with your menu. (And I mean proper spices, not that crap they sell at the market.) Etiquette-wise, I wouldn't worry too much. Since the Arishok considers our ways inferior, I doubt he is expecting too much from you. Meaning, if he accepted the invitation, he is quite prepared to suffer through some humiliating faux pas. I am sending you a bottle of Aggregio, just in case. At least that way you can blame wine, if you end up misbehaving._

_Fenris_

At the bottom of the letter, a hasty P.S., likely Isabela's addition: _just fuck the man_

 

Hawke covers her face and groans. Suddenly she has a massive headache.

 

***

 

Kithshok peeks inside the tent. The Arishok acknowledges his presence with a short nod and he steps in, looking slightly worried already. He waits while the Arishok finishes signing some papers.

“For your information,” states the Arishok finally, as he piles his papers and puts them away, “I will be going to serah Hawke's house tonight.”

Kithshok makes a face – a very subtle one, but it is there.

“Out again? You think that is wise?”

“I am invited, I see no harm in it.”

“And… that is a good reason?”

The Arishok leans back in his chair and inspects his general. They have known each other for a long time, since way before he was appointed as the Arishok, even before he became the commander in Alam. Kithshok is blunt, patient, and careful to a fault, and while they don't always agree, the Arishok values his input.

“What is your opinion on Hawke?”

“She is _basalit-an_.” Kithshok shrugs. “There is no greater honor for a heathen.”

“Yes. But what do you think about her?”

“I like her.” Kithshok grins at his leader's expression. “You did not expect that.”

“No, I did not.”

“We don't always disagree, Arishok.”

The Arishok snorts. The general continues: “She has been of great help, she is respectful and wants to learn. But if you ask me if going to her house is wise…” The Arishok rumbles. Kithshok tilts his head, his cool silver eyes get narrow.

“Are you planning on bedding her?”

The Arishok looks surprised.

“No. Of course not.”

Kithshok hums. 

“I see.”

The Arishok gives him a curious look: he knows that sometimes Kithshok can read the situations better - then again, due to his suspicious nature, Kithshok also has the tendency to read too much into things.

“You see what?”

“Nothing. Would it be just the two of you?”

“You are asking strange questions.”

“Not at all. Your safety is my main concern.”

The Arishok frowns.

“It is just a dinner. I have never been to one held by _bas_ , so let us call it a learning experience.”

“Cultural curiosity, then.”

“Yes.”

“All right. And would you go if anyone else invited you?”

“Who else is there in this city I can trust not to poison my food?”

“Fair point.” Kithshok nods his grey head. “Well then. I will prepare a –“

“Only two karashok, my friend. It will be enough.”

The man sighs.

“As you wish.”

The Arishok rubs his temples. Kithshok means well: he is protective, and that is fine. What is not fine, however, is the fact that, despite his own words, he has no clear idea why he agreed to go through with this. Is it really just curiosity?

Suddenly, he has a massive headache.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vocabuary:
> 
> _Basalit-an_ \- A non-Qunari worthy of respect.


	4. Where Hawke Serves Some...Cake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke misbehaves. The Arishok needs some, uh, alone time, afterwards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was hard for me to write. I like some parts, I dislike others, I wrote it too many times, maybe that's the problem. I am not sure it _flows_ right... but here it is. :) 
> 
> Chapter contains boobs & masturbation.
> 
> Thank You goes to my beta Fen - she is wonderful!!!

The Arishok is, as Hawke knows he would be, punctual. Exactly at six bells there is a loud knock on the door.

Hawke's mabari, always vigilant, positions himself by his mistress and gives her a questioning look. Hawke shakes her head. The dog blinks and sits down - the beast is smarter than half of the people she knows, and way easier to deal with.

”Good boy.”

Hawke closes her eyes for a moment, takes a deep breath, and opens the door.

The Arishok fills the doorway like a brick wall, looking impressive as ever. His polished horns are adorned with gleaming gold bands, his long, thick hair is a luxurious cascade of white against the crimson wool of his cloak. His expression is calm. His golden eyes intent. Behind him stand two karashok holding torches.

Hawke stares at him, mesmerized, as her heart flutters. She is so fucked.

”There you are,” she greets cheerfully. Maker, he looks – he looks so – she swallows. ” _Shanedan_ , Arishok.”

The Arishok frowns and inspects her outfit. She is wearing a deep red gown with ruby red satin sash, and she has, for once, let her hair down. The color is not an accident – whether the Arishok approves or not, is not immediately clear.

” _Shanedan_ , serah Hawke,” he says finally, somewhat formally, and his impossible voice makes her toes curl.

”Come on in.”

Mabari, who has not yet decided what to make of this guest, tilts his head and huffs a warning. The Arishok turns to look at him. They stare at each other for a moment. Then the dog begins to wag his tail, and pokes the Arishok's hand approvingly with his muzzle.

”All right,” says Hawke. She makes an apologetic gesture. ”Sorry about that. He is very protective.”

”Most wise,” the Arishok says. He doesn’t seem to mind the dog, and Hawke comes to think that she has never seen any canines in the Qunari compound. They do have cats, though, to keep the rodents away. One of the cats, a tiny red female, likes to hang around the Arishok’s tent - and although Hawke is aware that the Qunari don’t have pets, she has witnessed the Arishok petting her on regular basis. When Hawke teased him about it, he pointed out that by hunting the vermin the cat was fulfilling her role, and therefore deserved recognition. The memory still makes her smile.

The Arishok steps in and studies his surroundings with open suspicion, as if searching for a threat or just something offensive. Hawke fights the urge to roll her eyes and comes to think of something.

”What about your karashok?”

The Arishok frowns again.

”They will wait. You find their presence outside your door... bothersome?”

”No, no, not at all. I don't mind.”

But my neighbors might, she adds in her mind. The Arishok is no fool. He understands.

”You do mind,” he says. He blinks. ”They are staying nevertheless. ”

Hawke winces. Of course they are.

”This way.”

She steps forward and makes a grand gesture with her hand. She is quite proud of her estate: after her mom's passing she has bought some beautiful Orlesian furniture, which she suspects is too lavish - but then again, Hawke likes pretty things, she needs comfort, and she is not modest enough not to use the money now that she has it. 

At some point, while preparing, she considered hiding the most luxurious items: the Arishok, being a military person and a Qunari, has the tendency to sneer at anything vain and useless. Eventually though, she decided not to give a rat's ass. This is her home after all. So everything stayed: the paintings, the silky pillows, the glittering candelabra. Well, everything except for the staff - after hearing who is coming for dinner, none of them wanted to stick around.

”So, this is my place. What do you think?”

The Arishok doesn't look impressed. In fact, after the initial inspection he seems to have forgotten about the setting altogether, and has turned his whole attention to Hawke, who suddenly feels uncomfortable under his heavy gaze.

She realizes it is one thing to meet the Arishok in the Qunari compound – he isn't any less frightening there, but at least everything there is Qunari size - but here, in the human environment, he is just too damn big. Too... close.

”You are nervous, Hawke.”

”That I am. May I get your cloak?”

The Arishok pulls the loose knot open with the tip of his claw (the movement is mesmerizing, and she stares, she can't help it) and surrenders the heavy piece of clothing. Underneath is his usual impressive gear of leather and silverite, and more than enough of bare skin with metallic red paint. An outfit so familiar, yet all of a sudden disturbingly alien and barbaric.

Hawke turns her head and bites her lip. What's wrong with her? She has seen him like this dozens and dozens of times.

”Please, sit. The couch might be comfortable. Would you like some wine?”

The question is potentially offensive. The Qunari, always the ones for self control and non-indulgence, don't usually drink – but Hawke knows there are exceptions, and once or twice she has witnessed the Arishok pouring himself a glass of what they call _Maraas-Lok_. Kithshok, of all people, forced her to taste the stuff once (he can be such an asshole at times), and she made an immediate connection between the drink and _Gaatlok_ , the explosive powder: as far as she is concerned, neither one is meant to be taken internally. Or externally, for that matter.

The Arishok grunts – that's a ”yes”, she decides – and sits down. The dog, who has followed them, immediately tries to climb in his lap. Hawke runs to pull him back by his collar.

”Cookie, no!”

The Arishok looks at the dog, then at Hawke, mystified.

”You named the mabari.”

“Well - yes, we do name our pets.”

“You named the mabari after a confection.”

Hawke snaps her fingers and points towards the staircase; the dog whines and heads upstairs. She turns to the Arishok.

“I did. I almost went for Seneschal, but… well. I was told it would be awfully inappropriate.” She grins. “Just as well. Wouldn't want anything that reminds me of Bran in my bedroom anyway.”

The Arishok’s face is blank, as he stares at her.

“You share your sleeping space with an animal.”

Hawke, not liking her guest’s flat, disapproving statements, nor the direction the conversation is heading, grabs a glass.

“Yes, he sleeps by my bed. It is not uncommon. Now, why don’t you let me pour you some wine.”

The Arishok looks slightly offended, but leaves the matter be. He spreads his long, heavy arms along the back of the couch and watches intently, as she pours some garnet-red liquid in a fancy glass. It is the biggest one she could find, but probably way too small for Qunari hands. She offers it to her guest nevertheless; the Arishok takes it with a graceful movement.

”This is Tevinter wine,” Hawke explains, suddenly realizing that serving anything from Tevinter might be a truly bad idea. She waits for a couple of seconds, but when her guest doesn't react, she babbles on. “ _Aggregio Pavali_ , actually. Great stuff. I got this as a gift from Fenris, surely you remember him? The crabby elf with the tattoos?” Hawke swallows, praying for any kind of response. She gets none, so on she goes. “Anyways, he lives in this mansion that used to belong to a Tevinter Magister – in fact, the Magister used to be Fenris' master back when he was a slave, but don't bring it up with him, it is a bit of a touchy subject.” _Why is she still talking?_ “So, in his cellar there was all this wine, and, a funny thing, we also found this fancy wooden chest, and would you believe the dirty old bastard had filled it with – ”

”Hawke. _Parshaara_. Enough.”

Hawke shuts up and sinks on the couch. The Arishok tastes the wine. He looks pleased. Hawke relaxes somewhat.

”You can say whatever you want about Tevinter, but they do know how to make wine, don't you think?”

There’s no answer.

”Are you hungry yet?”

No answer. Well – at least this is familiar. Hawke waits patiently. The Arishok takes another sip from his glass, and lets his eyes glide slowly down her dress and the long, lustrous hair. He doesn't look particularly impressed, but he is curious.

”You look different.”

Hawke tries not to flush.

”In a bad way?”

”No.”

”Is this better than my armor?”

”No.”

Maker, the man knows how to talk to ladies! Hawke makes an annoyed sound; she really thought she looks quite ravishing tonight. The Arishok turns his gaze to her eyes.

”Hawke. Why did you invite me here?”

She hesitates.

”Because… we are friends?”

The Arishok blinks his pale eyes.

“Are we now.”

“Well, you do like me.”

“I _tolerate_ you, Hawke.”

“I'll take it.”

The Arishok looks slightly amused. Hawke tilts her head and laughs.

”Let's eat.”

The dinner is a success: the Arishok quite likes the spicy stew (finding hot spices has been a pain) and he truly likes the strawberry cake served as a dessert – as do the two surprised karashok, who are served a piece each. 

Afterwards, Hawke and the Arishok enjoy some decent Antivan brandy: it is strong, delicious, and goes straight to one’s head. And since Hawke might have had a glass or two even before her guest's arrival, she is getting quite tipsy, quite fast.

”Hey, Arishok.”

She leans forward in her armchair, trying to look serious and failing. The Arishok sits firmly on the couch, holding his glass and examining a book he has found. It is about Chantry rules; not terribly interesting to him, but it is better than the alternative…

“Arishok?”

Nothing.

”You are ignoring meee!” 

Still, nothing. Hawke giggles.

”You know, someone told me not to lick you.” That gets his attention. The Arishok lifts his eyes. Hawke grins and continues with the overly precise speech of a drunk person: ”I am not supposed to lick you because you are _poisonous!_ Isabela told me!”

His upper lip seems to curl, baring his teeth; it is just a quick flash, almost not there, but Hawke is pretty sure it happened. She blinks. Has Isabela somehow managed to get under the Arishok's skin? Nothing new there; she has that skill. Better ignore it for now.

”So anyways, I was warned.”

He looks displeased.

”And why would you lick me, Hawke?”

”I don't know. Maybe I get hungry again?”

”You are drunk, woman.”

”Yeahyeah. Shameful, I know.” Hawke pauses and looks suddenly delighted. ”You know, you have never called me a woman before.” She thinks about this for a minute. ”I like it. After all,” she lifts her breasts with her hands, ”I am a woman. See?”

The Arishok is trying to concentrate on his book. Hawke is not going to give up.

_”See?”_

”Yes, Hawke. I am aware.”

”But are you? Hmm? Are you really?”

”I have known you for three years, Hawke. I have made inquiries. I know more about you than you know about you. I am quite aware of your sex.”

Hawke goes quiet and looks at him, just looks at him, for a while. His muscles, his long white hair, the magnificent horns arching above his head. She wants to touch those horns so bad. She wants to touch every inch of him.

”Would I really die if I licked you?”

The Arishok considers this. “Likely.” He shrugs. “The vitaar is poisonous when applied -”

“I was thinking, if I wore gloves, could I volunteer on spreading that stuff on you guys?”

The Arishok looks visibly annoyed and gives her a sharp glance; the kind that would under normal circumstances scare her witless.

“ _No._ It is ritualized.”

“Bah. So, the dying part?”

“Once dry, it has mostly protective effects. However, if you were to actually ingest some, even dry... yes, you would die.”

”Ooo. Would it be painful? Would it be slow, or fast? Would I throw up my –”

”You are not going lick me, Hawke.”

Hawke snorts, but feels strangely endeared.

”You could lick me!”

The Arishok ignores her. He turns a page and continues his reading. Hawke bites her lower lip, incapable of taking her eyes off him now. She is being stupid, she knows it. She is being stupid and irresponsible, but that has never stopped her before, and she wants him _so fucking bad_ and she is _so fucking drunk_... Her body begins to burn, there is an annoying, feverish throb between her legs. And the worst part is, she is losing to _Chantry Rules_.

Hawke hesitates for yet another desperate moment. Then she gets up and slowly walks by the couch, right in front of the Arishok. He glances at her, somewhat puzzled.

Slowly, like approaching an unpredictable animal, she positions herself between his knees. He is so tall that they are pretty much face to face now. Hawke lets her longing eyes caress his body again. The Arishok doesn't make a move, but he does look intrigued, trying to figure out what she is up to. His eyes are flickering in the candlelight, his full mouth seems to tighten a bit.

Hawke, who vaguely realizes that she is walking on thin ice above unknown waters, takes a deep breath and pulls her gown down, exposing her breasts. 

The Arishok looks down, studying the sight with interest – she has a very nice set of breasts, after all – and then returns to her eyes, calm as ever.

For _fuck's_ sake.

Hawke reaches and touches his face gingerly. Like all Qunari’s, his skin has a slight metallic tinge to it, but it feels warm and smooth under her fingers - and suddenly she realizes that this is the first time she has ever touched him. So many years, so many visitations without even the slightest physical contact. She shivers, leans closer and smells his snow white hair. Incense, spices, tea.

She falls back to the floor, kneeling between his legs. The Arishok's eyes narrow. Hawke avoids his stare, as she very carefully takes one huge, heavy hand, and presses it against her breast; her nipple immediately puckers against his rough palm. Her body arches helplessly. She can feel the slight sting of his claws, and the thought that they could cut through her skin like butter, is terrifying and arousing at the same time. She can't prevent a soft moan from escaping her.

“Arishok...”

He doesn't move, at all: the hand on her breast stays still, not withdrawing, but not caressing her either. Hawke hesitates. She is not sure if he is saying yes to her advances, but since he is not saying no, she decides to push on – she is far too turned on to stop anyway. She sets her hands on his thighs. He allows this, too, but when she starts gliding her nimble fingers upwards, reaching for his groin area, he grabs her wrists and stops her.

_”No.”_

And there it is: the good old _no_. Next thing she knows, she is lifted up in the air, carried back to her chair, and set down.

”Enough drinking, Hawke.”

”Yes, you are right,” she whispers and pulls her dress back up, covering herself. She is sure her skin is now just as red as her dress. If she has ever been this mortified, she can't remember it.

The Arishok stays for another hour. They have a short talk about the Chantry and templar training. Usually Hawke loves listening to him: his voice is delicious, his pronunciation precise and clear, and his knowledge of common tongue exquisite. But tonight, after everything that has happened, his presence feels like torture to her. The Arishok is calm and distant, but Hawke is having a hard time trying to act normal, so when he finally rises to take his leave, she can't help but feel greatly relieved.

”I enjoyed the cake. _Panahedan._ ”

”Thank you for coming, Arishok. _Panahedan_.”

Hawke looks on as he steps out the door.

And he takes _Chantry Rules_ with him.

 

****

 

The Arishok lies in his bed and stares at the ceiling.

He never should have accepted the invitation.

He should have known better, he should have stayed in the compound.

_Vashedan_.

He closes his eyes and immediately he sees Hawke, standing before him, in her red dress: the outfit makes her look odd and weak, smaller somehow. Defenseless. Disturbingly feminine. Her hair falls like black silk on her shoulders and back, and then she pulls the dress down...

The Arishok tries to shut the picture down, to replace it with other pictures. Seheron. Kithshok. Fresh bread. Dreadnought. Anything – but it is no good. He sees her and her cursed breasts, round and heavy, with delicately rosy nipples, bouncing seductively, as she falls on her knees.

He is getting hard. The Arishok swears again and fights the urge for a moment. There is nothing shameful about taking oneself in hand: often it is a necessity, in the absence of tamassrans it is just another way to keep oneself calm and centered. The problem is… he is feeling the urge because of Hawke, and he is not supposed to. He is not supposed to want a person, just sex in general, and he is especially not supposed to want Hawke, who is _bas_ and someone he is fond of.

He has never fantasized about anyone. Ever.

The Arishok bites his lip. He remembers the way Hawke's breast felt in his hand: silky, tender and soft – perhaps the softest thing he has ever touched. Her skin was so pitifully thin. The Arishok feels a hot surge of protectiveness and lust rush through him. 

He opens the laces of his pants and wraps his fingers around his organ. He closes his eyes again.

In his foolishness he tries to replace Hawke's face with Rasaan's, as if that would make the thing more acceptable, but he fails miserably. Rasaan, as beautiful and skilful as she is, has never, would never, want him with the desperation Hawke does, and he has never felt the urge to touch himself while thinking about the priestess. Their relationship is professional and proper, this, this is… something else.

The Arishok imagines Hawke astride his lap, her arms around his neck, her sweet, overwhelming scent in his nostrils. He can see the desire and fear in her eyes, as he starts kneading her breasts. He fantasizes about sucking her nipples, gently, then hard. He imagines gliding his hands under her hem, over her smooth thighs, and finally between them, and finding her wet and ready.

He tightens his grip and lets out a soundless moan. Oh, he would take her right then and there: he conjures up an image of forcing her thighs wider apart, positioning himself, and pulling her down to impale her on his rigid length. His hand moves faster, harder, he can almost feel her velvety softness, he can feel how tight she is, how tight she _must be_ , for his cock...

The Arishok comes with a suppressed groan.

He is still panting heavily, as he wipes his fingers and belly, cursing his own weakness and Hawke's stupid antics.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...aaand we are slowly approaching Smut Town.
> 
> Fen pointed out that adding vocabulary might be a good idea (apparently most people don't speak fluent Qunlat!), and I agree. Therefore... 
> 
> Vocabulary:
> 
> _Shanedan_ \- Literally, "I'll hear you." A respectful greeting.  
>  _Panahedan_ \- "Goodbye." Literally, "take refuge in safety."  
>  _Parshaara_ – Enough.  
>  _Maraas-Lok_ \- A kind of strong Qunari alcohol; possibly also the verb "to drink."  
>  _Gaatlok_ \- A black, non-magical explosive powder unique to the Qunari.  
>  _Vashedan_ \- Crap (literally "refuse" or "trash."); A common profanity.


	5. Where Hawke Does Some Damage Control With Cookies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dealing with the consequences. 
> 
> Is it... hot in here?!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, folks, non-con/dub-con warning for this one. Oh dear.
> 
> Thank You (and cookies) goes to my beta Fen. Always so ah-mazing! :)

“So,” says Kithshok and leans against the edge of the sparring ring. “Did you see the new _viddathari_?”

The Arishok, who is keeping a sharp eye on training soldiers, nods. “I did.” 

He met the group of converts - most of them elves - this morning, and found them more or less sincere. Of course, some of them might be spies, even Tevinter spies, he wouldn’t put it past them. But that is the way of things.

Two young karasaad are dancing around the ring, swinging their weapons in the bright autumn sunlight. They are both loud and a bit obnoxious, thinking themselves immortal, as one does in that age. The Arishok vaguely remembers being that way. 

These boys shouldn’t be here, wasting their time and potential. Then again, were they in Seheron, they’d be dead. 

“You - keep your guard up,” he tells the youngster with a shaved head. “You are too reckless.”

“You are going to make your Tama cry,” Kithshok adds. The boy nods, slightly embarrassed. Kithshok turns to the Arishok. “I noticed you got back pretty late last night.” He pauses, waiting for a reply. Getting none, he continues: “How was it - the dinner with _bas_?”

The Arishok’s nostrils flare slightly, and that is the only sign that something might be off.

“Interesting enough.”

“You satisfied your… cultural curiosity?”

There is no edge, no change in the voice, but the Arishok doesn’t mistake the question for an innocent remark. He grunts. 

“I learned things.”

Kithshok looks expectant. The Arishok makes a small gesture with his hand - another sign that he is not so calm. “They don’t know how to prepare a proper spicy dish here, but she tried. After, she served one of those baked sweet things. She called it dessert, I believe.”

“Oh.” Kithshok looks slightly envious. “Anything else?”

“She has a dog that has a name. It sleeps in her bed chambers.” Kithshok’s eyes widen. The Arishok nods, as if still unable to comprehend the fact. “And her house doesn’t look like her.” He struggles to explain this. “She is tough. The house is soft. Pillows, decorations.”

That is not completely true, of course: there is softness to Hawke. Both in her character and body - the latter being something the Arishok is _very much trying not to think about_.

“Perhaps that’s because she is female?”

“Must be.” 

Oh, she is female all right. And then the Arishok can feel the phantom touch of her small hand on his face, the smoothness of her skin against his palm. He swears under his breath. _Why can’t he stop thinking about it?_

Kithshok leans closer.

“Are you planning on doing it again?”

There’s no hesitation: “No.”

 

*** 

 

”How did it go? Tell me, tell me, tell me!”

Isabela sounds way too enthusiastic. Hawke covers her face and refuses to look at her friends. Wandering through Lowtown, she has somehow ended up in The Hanged Man, finding Varric, Fenris and Isabela on the premises. She is immediately surrounded, a full tankard of ale in front of her, and everyone is staring at her in anticipation. She grabs the ale and drinks about half of it.

”I see,” says Fenris.

”Oh, Hawke,” sighs Varric. Isabela leans closer and lowers her voice.

”That bad? Talk, woman.”

”Oh it went _great!_ ” Hawke groans. ”Never have I been smoother! First of all, I got drunk. Then I wanted to lick him. Then I suggested he should lick me. _Then_ I got more drunk and showed him my boobs.” She shrugs. “He was… not impressed. And he became even less impressed when I tried taking off his pants. So he stole one of my books and left.” Her friends stare at her, speechless. ”He did love the cake, though.”

”There will be a war declaration,” Isabela states and looks at Varric gravely, her amber eyes sparkling. The dwarf nods.

”Kirkwall will burn. Thanks, Hawke. The future generations shall curse you and your burning loins: your forbidden desire has doomed us all, and the blood of the innocents...”

”This is not funny!” Hawke shrieks. She covers her face again. “Oh, Maker preserve me… I was drunk and he was there, all… muscular and controlled, and his hair smelled nice.”

Isabela winks at her. ”His horns so pointy.”

”Right.”

Fenris, who looks exceptionally uncomfortable, clears his throat. 

”Well,” he says, ”I knew he is fond of you, but now it's obvious he really likes you.”

”Oh, yes, I must be his favorite person in all of Thedas. No doubt about it.”

”All I'm saying is, since the Qunari don't have sex with their friends...” Hawke gives him a dirty look.

“Or maybe he just doesn't want me that way! Could be as simple as that!” Fenris blinks his huge emerald eyes. 

“Speaking as a male: unlikely.”

Varric laughs. Hawke buries her face in her hands again. She is overwhelmed by shame, worry and pointless longing. Isabela pets her head.

”Aw, don't cry, sugar pie. I am convinced you will make him absolutely furious in no time, and then you two can be proper enemies and fuck like rabbits! You'll see.”

”You are all crazy,” Hawke groans in a muffled voice.

They empty their tankards: Isabela leaves to order another round (as well as tease the love-sick poet by the counter), and Varric excuses himself as the nature calls. That leaves Fenris. Hawke is avoiding his eyes, concentrating instead on the shimmering lyrium tattoos that swirl like pulsing snakes around his brown arms. She has always found them beautiful, in a heartbreaking kind of way, but of course she can never tell that to Fenris.There is too much pain there.

“Tell me something,” Fenris says. His voice is so low that no one else can hear him. “Is this attraction purely physical?” Hawke snorts. 

“Oh, it’s very physical, all right!”

“Don’t. Don’t make this a joke.”

“Why are you asking?”

“I just wish to know how worried I am supposed to be.”

She bites her lip. She still won't look him in the eye. Fenris tilts his shaggy silver head. 

“Hawke?”

“Pretty fucking worried.”

He nods, but doesn't say anything - what is there to say, really? Hawke grabs his hand and squeezes those strong, long fingers. “Don't be, though. Just... forget about it: he is offended, and probably wants nothing to do with me anymore.” She sighs. “And I am far too ashamed to face him again. _Ever_.”

 

***

 

Two hours later Hawke is standing by the Qunari compound, staring at the gate, and squeezing a bag of honey-glazed cookies in her hand.

She does not want to go in. She _decided_ not to go in.

But she knows she has to do some damage control. After all, she has worked too long and too hard for the Arishok's favor: if there is even the slightest chance that she has offended him… well, she has to fix it.

Hawke approaches the gate. The karashok guarding the compound lifts the side of his mouth. ”Serah Hawke.”

Well, this is unusual. They kind-of-smile at her now? Suddenly she realizes that the karashok is one of the two soldiers that accompanied the Arishok to her house last night; she recognizes his lavender eyes, shaved temples, and impossibly long braids. She smiles back at the giant and opens her bag. She wishes she had come to think of this years ago.

”Have a cookie!”

As Hawke is walking through the compound, she realizes that everyone, not just the guard by the gate, is being friendlier than usual. Perhaps they all know about the Arishok’s visit, or perhaps they are just hoping to have some treats. Whatever the reason, she is getting more attention than she has ever received within these walls: nods, grunts, a couple of hands raised in greeting. One of the arvaarad - an intimidating man, whom Hawke doesn’t really know as she always tries to stay away from him - actually _grins_. Stunned by the act, Hawke almost takes a tumble.

Kithshok is standing by the storage buildings, talking to a karasaad with a shaved head. As soon as Hawke recognizes the general's wide back and thick, iron-colored braid, she changes her direction slightly, just to avoid him – but it is too late. The karasaad, a young man with a young man's fancies, has noticed her lithe figure zigzagging amongst his fellow giants, and is now having a hard time keeping his eyes on his superior officer. Kithshok turns.

_”Shanedan,”_ Hawke says, and tries to push by them as soon as possible. Kithshok takes a side step, raises his arm and stops her. Hawke blinks, surprised. ”What?”

”What are you doing here, Hawke?” She rolls her eyes. 

”I am here to collect the monthly tithe for the Chantry.” Kithshok stares at her, expressionless. Humor is wasted on Qunari. She sighs. ”Here to see the Arishok.”

”I am not sure he wants to see you.”

”I am not sure that is for you to decide.” Kithshok inspects her carefully. 

”Did you misbehave last night?” Hawke refuses to answer that. 

”May I pass?” She lays her hand on the massive arm blocking her way and gives the general a tight stare. ”I really like you. Don't make me change my mind about that.”

Kithshok looks at the tiny fingers pressing into his skin. His hard expression softens into thin amusement. _”Kost,”_ he says and lets his arm fall. ” _Kost_ , Hawke. Go and see the Arishok.”

Hawke nods and heads towards the Arishok's tent. If her heart is pounding a bit faster than before, who can blame her?

The Arishok is sitting at his desk. As usual, he has a mountain of papers and books piled around him. He doesn't bother looking at Hawke as she enters.

”Hawke.”

” _Shanedan_ , Arishok.” She offers him the cookies. He takes them without a glance. 

”Bribing my men again?”

_How the hell does he know?_

”Yes.”

”Sit. What do you want?”

It is always the same. He never says ”what can I do for you”, or even, ”nice to see you”. But this is his way. Hawke sighs and sits in the nearby chair. She hates the chair because she can't reach the ground with her feet, and it makes her feel like a three-year-old.

Her mouth feels dry.

_Just get over with it, Hawke._

”I came to apologize. I was out of line last night. Just know that I am sorry.”

The Arishok stops what he is doing and moves his eyes to the miserable-looking human female before him. He considers her words for a couple of minutes. Then he lowers his eyes again, and continues writing.

_Maker, I hate you_ , Hawke thinks. She clears her throat. ”Are we okay, Arishok?”

Another long silence. Then finally: ”Your effort has been noted. I bear no ill will towards you.”

”Good.” Hawke leans back in her chair, greatly relieved. She doesn’t doubt the Arishok’s words: he always means what he says. 

Silence returns. She isn't sure what to do, so she just sits there, letting her eyes go around the tent. It is a very nice tent, actually, filled with exotic rugs, and lanterns, and sturdy shelves full of books and scrolls written in different languages. Initially Hawke was amazed by the Arishok's linguistic abilities and the range of his interests, but nowadays she sees it as essential part of him. Hawke often thinks that had he not been chosen for military career, he would have made a fine scholar.

She closes her eyes and sighs. It is all so familiar to her: the rustling papers, the monotonous scratching sound of his quill, the way his gold earrings tinkle softly. The warm scent of tea lingering. In moments like this, there is something profoundly calming about the Arishok’s presence.

_He makes me feel safe._

Hawke opens her eyes, surprised by the thought.

Oh, it is such an easy thing to believe. And on some level it is true, too: he does make her feel safe, with his ridiculous size, imperative voice, and crushing confidence; he makes her feel like out there is Chaos, in here, Calm.

It is strange. It is nice. It is very… Qunari. But she doesn’t need it, surely, and she doesn’t trust it. She knows better than to count on anyone keeping anything safe in this world, she has lost too much in her life to do that.

Hawke sighs quietly. She is aware that there are times her relationship with the Arishok clouds her vision: as much perspective and knowledge as she has, she also has her blind spots. It is so tempting to lull oneself into state where all she cares about is the chance to listen to his voice and stare at his magnificence; so easy to forget how volatile the situation with the Qunari really is. There is so much frustration and bitterness lurking under this thin layer of serenity - and even though she really, really doesn’t want to think about it, she knows there will be no solution, no relief, before the Arishok manages to finish his mission and retrieve the relic he is looking for. And once he has done that...

Hawke feels a painful grip in her gut and shuts her mind off. No: she won’t go there, not now. 

Sensing the change in the atmosphere, the Arishok lifts his head. He stares at Hawke with piercing eyes, apparently trying to figure out why she looks so thoughtful, but when she says nothing, he grunts and returns to his work. ”You may leave, Hawke.”

”Right.”

No time for banter today. She shakes off the remains of her gloomy thoughts, gets up, turns towards the doorway – and hesitates. ”You know… just to make it clear: I was kidding around last night. When I touched you. I didn't mean anything, just pretend it didn't happen. I am glad we are good.”

As soon as she says the words, she realizes she should have kept her mouth shut.

The Arishok closes his book with a slam. His eyes pale into moonstones in the tent's saffron light.

_”Is that so.”_

His deep voice sounds like metal on a cold day, and Hawke freezes. She is not sure why the Qunari is angry with her all of a sudden, but there is no doubt about it. It is like something in him just snapped. Any feeling of safety she might have had, disappears.

”Yes,” she forces herself to say, unable to back down now. ”I was just kidding, Arishok. And I was drunk.”

He lifts his finger.

”You were not kidding. No lies, Hawke. Never lies.”

”But I was – ”

He makes her shut up with an impatient gesture, and then signals her to get closer. Hawke hesitates. Her instincts are telling, _screaming_ at her not to go – but the idea of defying him feels impossible. She wavers, then obeys, and walks towards his desk.

Without getting out of his chair, the Arishok grabs her with a swift, effortless movement, and before she can understand what is happening, she is hoisted up and set on the desk. She manages to make a small, alarmed sound, but is instantly stunned silent as the Arishok unceremoniously spreads her legs and pushes his massive body between them. He takes a firm hold of her wrists, draws them behind her back, and locks them in place with one of his hands.

_What -_

She tries to say it, but she is incapable of talking. She just stares at him, incredulous, shuddering inside the ring of those huge arms, as the deep, terrifying arousal grabs her stomach.

The Arishok presses the palm of his free hand against Hawke's chest and spreads his fingers: his hand is so large that it easily touches both of her nipples, now achingly hard under her soft tunic.

“I can hear your heart,” he says, and his deep voice does not waver. Hawke gasps frantically. She should stop this. She is strong: she could twist free and pull away - or, she could just tell him to stop, and he would. He would, because this is a goddamn test.

The Arishok’s gaze is growing dark. He lets his clawed fingertips roll leisurely over her nipples and knead the smooth tissue around them. Hawke’s body begins to tremble. He glides his hand over her left breast, tracing its shape carefully with his palm, feeling the weight and fullness of it, before giving it a slow, firm squeeze. Hawke lets out a soft cry, as her head falls back and her eyes go shut.

In her hazy state she is barely aware of when the Arishok’s hand begins to travel down. It moves without hesitation, all the way between her legs: once there, his fingers perform a soft, circular movement, that forces a moan out of her. The Arishok takes a deep breath. 

“I can smell you.” He rubs his fingers around with intense pressure, slowly, knowingly, his claws scratching the leather of her pants. Hawke's tense body begins to buck into the touch, reaching for it with embarrassing desperation. She wants - oh, she _wants_ \- The Arishok leans closer and lowers his voice till it’s impossibly deep, more to be felt than heard. “I could have you on this desk, right now, and you would not refuse me.”

Hawke sobs, overwhelmed by lust, yet grieving the loss of control and power: this ludicrous submissiveness, this urge to fucking roll over and show her belly to this man, this is not like her, _this is not like her_ \- but the fingers are still moving, and her body begins to tingle -

_”...yes.”_

That is apparently all the Arishok wants to hear. He backs off, pulls her down, spins her around, and pushes her away.

Hawke opens her eyes and stares at the Arishok, mortified. She is shaking now, barely able to stand.

_What has just happened?_

She is stunned by the act – but almost more by the impulsiveness of it: the Arishok never, _ever_ does anything without a careful consideration. He is the most infuriatingly controlled person she has ever met, she is pretty sure he doesn't even blink without giving himself a permission to do so first.

”You,” says the Arishok matter-of-factly, ”desire me.”

No lies. 

”Yes.” Her voice sounds so small, out of breath. The Arishok leans back in his chair, his fingers crossed. He is thinking. 

”Hawke,” he says finally. ”This is foolish.”

”...why?”

”Too many reasons, Hawke. Here is one: you are human.”

”You think I can't take it?”

”Whether you can _take it_ or not, is not of importance.” He looks at her, from head to toe, deliberating. ”But you probably could not.”

Hawke swallows, and a shiver goes through her body. She is so turned on it hurts, but she is also getting angry. 

”Are you bragging about the size of your dick now?” The Arishok's eyes get narrow and he blinks slowly; one of those carefully premeditated blinks. 

”I don't brag. About anything.”

”Well, I happen to know for a fact that it can be done. Isabela said – ”

” _Not_ my point, Hawke.”

”But – ” The Arishok lifts his finger with a sharp movement, as is his way, and shuts her up. 

”This is non-significant. This is enough.” He returns to his papers. ”Now leave.” Hawke turns, unable to look at him anymore. 

”I guess I will see you around.”

”You will see me here. _Panahedan_ , Hawke.”

She feels utterly devastated as she slowly exits the compound; if anyone greets her on her way out, she doesn’t notice it. For a moment she has half a mind to go back to the Hanged Man, find Varric and get stupidly drunk, again - but then she decides against it. She needs to be alone and clear her head.

And then… she probably needs to see Jethann.

 

***

 

The Arishok takes a deep breath.

_Shok ebasit hissra…_ Struggle is an illusion...

He tries to concentrate on the words. It is hard: when he gets upset enough, he is always having trouble calming himself down.

_Meraad astaarit, meraad itwasit..._ The tide rises, the tide falls...

He sighs and opens his eyes. For once, he finds no solace in the Soul Canto, in the words he loves. He feels the struggle inside him like he never has, and he just can’t focus.

As much as he hates to admit it, he has the potential to be... sudden. Thoughtless, even, when pushed far enough, but luckily that happens very, very rarely. He has trained himself well, after all, he has mastered the use of his voice, his expressions, his behavior. He knows how to keep the animal inside him on a short leash - as any Qunari must do. Even on those rare occasions when his soul is in turmoil, he knows how to control and cover. His mask is pretty much perfect.

_Mastery of the self is mastery of the world. Loss of the self is the source of suffering._

He is not sure when it all began to come apart, but he knows why. This cursed city. The madness, the foulness, the corruption, the disarray. There are days he is tempted to just give the order and take it all down.

Perhaps, one day, he will.

And then, in the middle of all this, the one thing that delights him, and infuriates him, the one thing that he can’t stop thinking about, the thing he… _wants_ : the source of his current misery and shame.

The Arishok brings his hand in front of his face and inhales the sweet scent that still lingers. Oh, but she has made him weak. Worse: she has made him a liar. 

He is immediately startled by the unfairness of the thought and shakes his head, as if to force it away. No. No: this is _his_ , he will own this.

For all his life he has loathed hypocrites and liars. All his life he has considered himself above such people. Now... he has become one. He forced Hawke to confess something he, himself, is too weak to admit.

Why, exactly, he did it, he isn’t sure. Another chance to show someone their flaws and prove his own, ostensible superiority? Perhaps merely an excuse to touch her. Whatever the case, and his own feelings aside - he acted inappropriately. He was _disrespectful_ : touching Hawke was absolutely out of line, and whether she enjoyed it or not made no difference.

The Arishok squeezes his hands into fists, till his claws almost impale the palms.

This has to end. 

_Suffering is a choice, and we can refuse it._

So.

He will push this whole thing out of his mind. He will pray, and meditate, and avoid Hawke for a while. That will work.

The Arishok stares at the paperwork in front of him. He tries to concentrate.

He really does.

But the only image in his head is Hawke facing him, legs spread apart, trembling, begging to be taken.

He groans and goes for the laces of his pants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you may remember, Jethann is the delightful elf who is “working hard” in The Blooming Rose…
> 
> I figured it would not hurt to clarify some military terms:
> 
> _Antaam_ \- Qunari military.  
>  _Arishok_ \- Supreme commander of the Antaam.  
>  _Kithshok_ \- Leaders of the Qunari army of Seheron; a general; They also are in charge of negotiating trade between the Qunari and foreign traders at ports.  
>  _Karashok_ \- Infantry private.  
>  _Karasaad_ \- A melee warrior.  
>  _Arvaarad_ \- "One Who Holds Back Evil"; a Qunari who watches over the _Saarebas_ (Qunari mages) and hunts _Tal-Vashoth_ (former members of the Qunari who have departed or been exiled).
> 
> Also:  
>  _Viddathari_ \- A convert to the Qun.  
>  _Kost_ \- Peace.
> 
> Finally, I would like to apologize for not giving Kithshok a cookie. Sorry, dude. :/


	6. Where Pantless Hawke And The Arishok Have A Serious Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time to make things clear. No, it won't be easy. For anyone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I find the lack of pants in this chapter disturbing. 
> 
> Another non-con/dub-con warning here. Also: Hawke is mighty pissed off... Maker preserve us!
> 
> My eternal gratitude goes to my beta Fen, she had some excellent suggestions and entertaining comments! :D Furthermore, I wish to thank everyone who's been reading/commenting/kudos'ing - it means SO MUCH, you guys!!!

Two weeks pass.

Hawke does not visit the Qunari compound, neither does she receive any messages from the Arishok. There is nothing unusual about this: they have no schedule, nor do they set visiting days. 

On the fifteenth day since their last meeting, Hawke is having a bad day. When she wakes up in the morning, there is a nasty letter waiting, informing her that she has forgotten to pay the blacksmith for some repair work. After the breakfast she tries to visit the Viscount, but gets denied by that idiotic Seneschal. In the afternoon she does some sparring with Fenris, and not only does she get her ass handed to her, but she also manages to chip the blade of one of her favorite daggers. Once she returns back home and realizes that Cookie has eaten her new slippers, that is just… too much.

Not in the mood to deal with anything or anyone, she tells her servants to stay out of her sight: Bodahn and Sandal take off to a tavern, and Orana hides herself in her secluded room behind the kitchen. Craving for absolute peace, Hawke also kicks the guilty-looking mabari out in the back yard - not much of a punishment, since the beast prefers being there anyway. Finally, she has a long bath, after which she buries herself under the blanket with a tray of snacks and Varric's latest novel. It is absolutely filthy and quite absorbing, which is exactly what she needs. 

Some time after the sunset, there is a knock on the door.

Hawke, who has fallen asleep on the couch, startles and swears. She decides to ignore the visitor, whoever they are, and pulls the blanket over her head.

Another knock, louder this time.

“Andraste’s _ass!_ ” Hawke jumps up, walks to the door, and pulls it open furiously. The moment she does, she becomes aware of two things: first, she is staring at the Arishok; second, she is wearing only a thin, wrinkled shirt. Also, her hair is a damn mess.

The Qunari arches his eyebrow; the looks his karashok are giving her are confused as well – the one with long braids and lavender eyes is straining his neck to get a better view. Hawke tilts her chin up.

_“What?”_

The Arishok turns and speaks to his men: they nod and leave. Then he steps inside and locks the door. Hawke frowns.

“What are you doing?”

“We are going to have a talk.”

“We are? _Now?_ ”

The Arishok grabs her shoulder, spins her around, and pushes her towards the library.

 

***

 

The Arishok lets his clawed fingers run across the lines of books. He picks one up, puts it back, picks another one… He moves deliberately slow, enjoying the warm light emitting from the fireplace, knowing it makes his snowy hair glow and his muscles shine. Usually he is not one for vanity, but as he can feel Hawke’s eyes on him, he finds he quite likes the attention.

Hawke’s library is diverse, and he is pleasantly surprised by it: it is not exquisite, but much better than he expected. He keeps on checking the titles, paying no mind to Hawke, who has collapsed in an uncomfortable-looking chair nearby. She has crossed her legs and arms in a pathetic attempt to protect herself from whatever is to come.

As if she could.

Finally the Arishok sets three books on the side table, and sits down on a small couch. He assumes a familiar position, leaning his jaw on his hand. His golden eyes, calm, but intense, are on her.

”I have been thinking about our last meeting,” he says. Hawke stirs, uncomfortable.

”Thought we were past this.”

”No.” 

“I see.”

“I believe I owe you an apology.” Hawke looks surprised, yet attempts to appear nonchalant. 

“Oh.” She relaxes a bit on her seat. “You are sorry.”

“No. I am not sorry: sorry refers to regret. I apologize: I was out of line, and I may have…” the Arishok is searching for the word, “misrepresented myself.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I may not have been totally upright with you.”

Hawke blinks.

“...so after giving me an ultimatum demanding I never lie to you, you come to me with _this?_ ”

“The irony is not lost on me.”

“All right.” Hawke’s jaw tightens, but she is doing a good job constraining herself. “And how, exactly, were you not upright with me?”

His eyes get narrow and there’s a tiniest change in his expression; like a crack in his usual mask. His long, clawed fingers start tapping on the side of the chair. Hawke takes note and looks immediately alarmed.

“Arishok, what is it?”

”I wish to engage in sexual intercourse with you,” he says. Hawke stares at him.

_“What?”_ The Arishok looks at her sternly. She gets pale, then bright red. 

“Wait – wait, wait, just _fucking wait!_ ” She jumps up, furious. ”You - you - you made it pretty fucking clear there was no way we could sleep together, and now you wish to _engage in sexual intercourse with me?!_ ”

She starts pacing the room, fuming, clenching her fists, too angry to say anything. The Arishok lets her get it out, and she growls, and stomps, and flails her arms, while he awaits patiently. His eyes follow her bare legs and swaying breasts as she walks; every now and then he can see the outlines of her hardened nipples through the fabric.

It is interesting, actually. Being naked is not a big deal to the Qunari: their females often go bare-breasted, and no one sees nudity as anything but natural, there is no shame involved whatsoever. With humans, however, especially with human females, things are different. They are always covered and hard to figure out under their clothing; only the prostitutes are the ones to reveal themselves publicly.

Whether it is a cultural thing or a matter of very thin skin, the Arishok doesn't care, but he has to (reluctantly) admit that there is something appealing there... a _mystery_. Apart from Hawke showing him her breasts that one night, he has never seen her display her body this way. The effect those glimpses of bare skin have on him is surprisingly powerful.

Hawke falls in the chair again, presses her face to her knees, and wraps her arms around herself. The Arishok looks at her calmly. Once he is sure she is capable of listening, he speaks – and this time his voice is different: there is a hint of surrender there. 

”Hear me, Hawke.” She makes an indifferent gesture, but doesn't lift her head. The Arishok continues: “I have been stuck in this rat's nest for years now. Rasaan gone, I can seek no release. So, when you offered yourself to me, as foolish as I deemed your action, I couldn’t deny there was... certain allure to it.” He struggles, clearly trying to explain himself as simply as possible. ”You must understand, were I in Par Vollen, I would go to the temple, and see a tamassran. Were I to breed, a carefully selected female would be designated for me. Under normal circumstances, I would never choose sexual partner by myself.” Hawke begins to laugh hysterically. 

“Oh, Maker have mercy! So, you are telling me that I am not good enough for you, but that you might _lower_ yourself, because you are short of options.”

The Arishok’s mouth tightens. 

“I am telling you, that beside the fact that you are not… meant for me, there are complications. First, you are not of the Qun. Second, you are human, and under the Qun races do not mix.” He pauses for a moment. ”But the biggest problem is you being someone I value: I am not supposed to sleep with anyone I truly care about.”

Hawke is not impressed. 

“Just go find someone you don’t care about, then! Should be easy enough!” She bends forward, smiling with too many teeth. ”Actually, Arishok, why don't you go find yourself a whore. There are plenty of brothels in Kirkwall. I know, I know – those girls are somewhat less sophisticated than your priestesses, but there's a nice selection around. Boys too! Get both! Get five!”

The Arishok considers. Hawke is right, of course: there are prostitutes. Loads of them, every color, size, age, race, and gender imaginable. But although they offer the same services that certain tamassrans provide at home (and he can respect that, certainly), in his guts he knows it is not the same. In Par Vollen the act is clinical and pure; in Kirkwall… well. Just as impersonal probably, but dirtier somehow, with the aftertaste of guilt and shame the _bas_ associate with sex.

Still, that is not the reason why he doesn't want to take that route.

“One wishes things were so simple,” he says. Hawke spreads her arms.

“What’s stopping you?”

And here it is, finally. The Arishok leans back and looks her straight in the eye.

“You.”

“Me?”

“My desire is quite specific, Hawke: I want _you_.”

Hawke’s eyes narrow: sparkling slits of bright blue. The Arishok remembers the first time he looked into those eyes, when they met in the dusty courtyard. It feels like a lifetime ago. Did he want her then?

“ _Well_ ,” she says. Her face is flushed again, deep, rosy glow spreading down to her chest. The Arishok finds it quite charming, even exotic, and for a fleeing moment he is wondering how low that flush goes, and if her skin feels hot under it. He shakes his head, and resists the temptation to touch her.

“Hawke.” He hardens his voice, just a little. “My sleep is troubled, my thoughts astray. This can not be. I have to clear my head: I have responsibilities to my men, to my mission, to the Qun. I can not be distracted by trivial things. We must take care of this.”

Hawke stares at him, agape.

_“Trivial?”_

The Arishok tilts his head. Surely Hawke must see how meaningless these kind of issues are in the grand scheme of things.

“I see you are angry again. Why is that?”

“Why am I angry? _Why am I angry?!_ ” 

“I wish to lay with you. You wish to lay with me. What is the problem? Clarify, Hawke.” She bounces up again, apparently incapable of staying put. 

”You - you just - _fuck!_ ”

”Hawke. I find your behavior irksome.”

There is, indeed, annoyance in his voice: not much here seems to make sense, and he doesn't like all this emotional turmoil. He sees it as such a human thing, with neither merit in it, nor pleasure. 

Hawke walks by a bookshelf and leans her forehead against it, trying to calm down. The Arishok awaits in silence. He is wondering if all human females are this moody and frivolous - but then her hips tilt back a bit, and suddenly he gets something else to think about, as the delicious shape of her curvy behind becomes clearly visible under her short shirt. He stares at the sight. 

Three steps, and he could lift that pathetic piece of clothing and claim her right there: she would be unable and unwilling to stop him, this he knows. He closes his eyes.

Hawke's cold voice brings him back. 

“You come here... to tell me you want to fuck me.”

“Yes.”

She wavers and takes a nervous little side step. The Arishok can see that she is still offended and flustered, but he can also feel her body hum in anticipation and badly concealed desire. Her scent is so strong now, that it makes every breath he takes feel like torture. She swallows.

“And - I am supposed to give you an answer.” 

The Arishok frowns.

“Not at all: I know the answer.” He makes an airy gesture. “I am here to spend the night.” Hawke's eyes widen. She stops breathing for a moment. 

“You – you assume that I will spread my legs _just because you tell me to?!_ ”

“You will spread your legs because you want to.”

“I don't know what the hell you think –“

Enough.

The Arishok stands up and closes the distance between them. Hawke instinctively backs off, but there is nowhere to go, and then he is right there, towering above her. She grimaces.

“Don’t you fucking dare!“

He ignores her protest and presses closer, capturing her between the bookshelf and his massive body. Hawke lets out an angry cry; she almost manages to dive under his arm and get away, but he grabs her with a swift movement, slams her shoulders against the shelf, and bows his head, so that he is breathing in her hair.

“Hawke.”

She refuses to listen and continues to struggle. The Arishok wonders if Hawke would be able to free herself, if she really wanted to - she might. But he can tell that right now she does not want to, that she is not fighting to win; she only keeps on pushing because she wants to feel how strong he is, how easily he can restrain her. That is fine: he can give her that. He can understand the appeal of that kind of defeat.

The Arishok snarls a warning, and twists her knees apart: then he places his hands under her thighs and lifts her up, nailing her firmly against the bookshelf. It is unlikely that she can feel his erection through his armor, but he almost wishes she could: he’s been achingly hard ever since they entered the library. Hawke swears, and tries to squirm her way out of his arms. 

“You - fucking Qunari bastard - “

“Hawke,” he repeats. She struggles for yet another minute, lets out an infuriated sound, and goes pliant. The Arishok rumbles softly. He touches her mouth with his fingertips. 

_“Hush.”_

Hawke lets her head fall against the Arishok’s heart. He loosens his grip, allowing her to breathe properly. 

The Arishok holds Hawke for a while, feeling her in his arms. So... small. So light. It is strange, really: she is astonishingly strong and fast, and her personality is so overpowering, that one might expect her to be heavier somehow. Instead, she is lithe, and soft, and almost weightless. So very different from the females he is used to. Just the idea of being inside this creature...

Intrigued and aroused by the thought, the Arishok allows his hands to drift slowly along the warm curves of her thighs and hips. Encouraged by Hawke’s faint mewls, he glides his palms under her bare bottom and cups her cheeks - and oh, he is almost undone right then and there. The flesh in his hands is so maddeningly soft: he gasps and smooths his fingers over it, and starts to massage it greedily. He can sense the inviting heat and moisture between her legs, he can feel the sides of his palms getting wet. He tries to resist.

Not yet, he thinks. _Not yet -_

But his cock is throbbing, painfully, and then his hips are pushing hard against her: a reflex, rather than a conscious decision, but one he is unable to stop. He grabs Hawke’s knees, forces them even further apart, and begins to grind against her. Hawke cries out at the rough contact. The Arishok pauses, alarmed, and looks at her - but she seizes his hips and pulls him right back in. He gnarls and obeys.

The feeling is dark and intoxicating, a relief, but also a tease, and he is desperately craving for more, his aching to be inside her not a mere want or need anymore, but an absolute necessity. The thought of only layers of leather separating them from each other is almost too much to bear.

Hawke, now gasping and whimpering, arches against him, reaching for his horns. As she rubs the skin at the base of them, the Arishok growls against her neck, presses his teeth on her skin, and bites down, too hard. Hawke cries out, and he can taste blood.

_”Wait.”_

The Arishok stops immediately and looks at her. Hawke is panting, shuddering with desire, but there is something else, too, something he recognizes, even through his foggy, intense arousal: fear. The Arishok searches her face.

“You are afraid.”

“...yes.”

He hums, contemplating. Then he sets her down, keeping his hands on her shoulders, because she seems incapable of standing. 

“I am sorry,” she whispers. He touches her hair. It is soft and messy, and for a fleeing moment his fingers are itching to wrap around those silky strands: he envisions himself pulling her head back, forcing her all the way down on the floor, and collapsing on top of her. 

_No._

He compels himself calm. Then he looks her in the eye, stern and pitiless, but not unfriendly.

”I can't promise I won't hurt you,” he says. “But I will be as careful as I can.”

The Arishok knows that Hawke is not afraid of pain, as much as she is worried about… other things. He knows, because he has the same fear. But the truth is, at the moment he doesn’t give a damn: he stares at the bite mark he has left on Hawke’s neck, and thinks how he is going to mark her like that everywhere.

“All right.” Hawke rubs her face and lets out a short, nervous laughter. “You – are you really sure this is a good idea?” 

She is asking that, and she is serious, but he can see that she is gone already: she can't keep her hands off him, can't keep her shivering body from pressing against his. The Arishok shakes his head.

“This is a very bad idea. But it is going to happen nonetheless.”

Hawke nods, apparently just as lost as he is, and her lips tremble: they are pale pink, soft, and glistening. Very distracting. The Arishok studies her for another moment, deliberating, searching for words. He suspects talking to her in this state is a waste of time, but there are things he needs to make clear - to her, as well as to himself.

“This is how it is going to be, Hawke.” He is using the severe, emphatic tone he usually reserves for briefing his generals. “I shall attend to my need. You will satisfy your curiosity. And then we will be over this. The tension ceases: things return to normal. Do you understand?”

Hawke looks sceptical. And maybe just a little bit bereft.

“A one-time thing then.”

“What else could it be?”

“Right.” She laughs, again, but her eyes avoid him. “What else could it be.”

The Arishok lets his hands fall and takes a step back.

“Now. I have never been with a human. I know we are physically compatible, more or less, but I wonder if there's anything particular I should be aware of.”

Hawke blinks, surprised, and perhaps a bit embarrassed, by the question. 

“I don't… why don't we just see how it goes?” The Arishok looks displeased. He had hoped for a more helpful and specific answer; a proper lecture, if possible. Hawke can see that. “But, since you asked, a proper warm-up would be appreciated.” The Arishok clicks his tongue.

“You take me for a barbarian?”

“Hey,” Hawke raises her hands. “You’d be surprised how many men are thoughtless like that.” 

No, actually, he wouldn’t be. He crosses his arms.

“Anything else?”

“I suppose - considering your size, I think I should be on top.”

The answer is as quick as it is absolute: “No.”

Hawke stares at him.

_“No?”_

“No. That will not happen.”

“...why not?”

“Because you will submit.”

_“I will submit?”_ Hawke frowns, and looks like she is trying very hard not to be offended. “‘Cause I am female? I thought you guys are all about equality.”

“We are.”

“So - what, this is about your bossy nature? Or I need to submit because I am _bas?_ ” She leans closer, her voice hissing. “Or, because it is _me?_ ”

The Arishok’s horns protrude forward.

“Yes.”

Hawke stares at him, incredulous. 

“Really?” She inspects his expression, and then shakes her head. “You know, this is just silly. I’m sure we could -“

“I do not negotiate.” 

Hawke rolls her eyes. 

“How positively Qunari of you.”

_“Asit tal-eb.”_ The Arishok walks to the door and pulls it open. “Show me your bedroom.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Asit tal-eb._ \- "The way things are meant to be." or "It is to be." A driving principle of the Qunari philosophy.


	7. Where Hawke And The Arishok Come Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter is upon us! Smut galore ensues! Buckle up, for it's going to be a rough ride. 
> 
> Warnings for Qunari sex and everything that comes with it. Koslun’s balls!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once more: Thank You to my beta [Fen](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Fen_Assan/pseuds/Fen_Assan). Your skilfull edits and smart/sweet/crazy/dirty/hilarious suggestions and comments were truly invaluable! Couldn't have done this without you.
> 
> *showers rose petals and champagne*

Hawke's bedroom is warm and cozy. Still, she can't help a cold shiver as the Arishok closes the door behind them.

He walks by the fireplace and begins to undress.

She stares as he takes off his vambraces and boots; unties the blood-red sash on his waist; detaches the pauldrons and the harness; removes the heavy leather skirt, and pants – and then he is standing there, a near-naked giant, impressive even out of his gear.

Hawke touches her dry lips with her tongue. She lets her eyes glide over the Arishok’s glistening skin, long, graceful limbs and heavy muscles, and suddenly she realizes that he is without his vitaar. She has never seen his skin bare and clean before; he looks strange, and very naked. Hawke’s fingers are itching to touch him.

The Arishok turns a bit, and as the light shifts, Hawke notices the shimmery webbing of scars all over his skin. She does a quick, professional estimation: the scars are mostly caused by blades and arrows, and a couple of them have definitely been life threatening. Becoming the Arishok has not been an easy road. She comes to think that like any experienced warrior, he must be in constant pain.

He walks by the bed. His simple linen smallclothes are bulging with a very sizable erection, and although Hawke is too flustered by this to actually stare, she can’t help but notice a small wet spot in the fabric - a silly, meaningless detail, but somehow so endearing and, well, humane, it makes her feel all warm and tender. The Arishok, relaxed and unashamed, pays her no mind.

The Arishok grabs the thick mattress, and pulls it on the floor – the bed’s just not big enough for him. Then he sits down on it, crosses his legs, rests his elbows on his knees, and joins his fingertips in front of his mouth. He looks at her expectantly, in silence. His huge horns cast a strange and frightening shadow on the wall. As always, his expression is impossible to read.

Hawke understand what is expected from her, yet she hesitates. Normally getting naked wouldn't be a problem, she has been nude in front of all kinds of folk: humans, elves, peasants, nobles, templars… but before this man she suddenly feels shy.

The Arishok tilts his head, as if unsure what to make of her indecision.

”You wish to reconsider?”

”I… don't know.”

He studies her carefully, without saying a word. As it continues for a few minutes, Hawke begins to feel more and more insecure.

The Arishok has never told her he considers her beautiful. She is aware males in general find her attractive: she has round breasts, curvy hips, and strong, shapely limbs. But she has no idea what the Qunari like. Apart from the size and the horns, their races aren't so different from each other, but who knows? Maybe they prefer narrow hips and robust shoulders? Less body hair? Bigger boobs, probably. And she is definitely lacking in the horn and claw department. Maybe he finds her too… tame?

She sure as hell isn't Rasaan. The thought hurts, so she tries to push it away.

“Do you like the way I look?” It is a stupid, needy question, but she can't help it. Her voice is a pathetic whisper. The Arishok raises his eyebrows, but doesn't hesitate with the answer.

“You are appealing to me.”

“Appealing?”

The Arishok considers. He is not the kind of man used to flattering or sweet talk, but he must see that Hawke needs it as he finally utters, “I like the color of your eyes.”

Hawke blinks. Well – she's heard worse. Probably. Then again, she has definitely heard better. The Arishok takes note on her lack of reaction and tries again: 

“I find your appearance aesthetically pleasing. You are very… proportionate.” He pauses, as if wondering whether the thing he is about to say is appropriate. “And soft.”

Hawke covers a shy smile. She fiddles with the hem of her shirt, still slightly unsure, and realizes her fingers are getting sweaty. The Arishok is staring at her, calm, expectant, endlessly patient.

_Fuck it._

She steels herself, swiftly pulls the shirt over her head, and tosses it somewhere behind her back. The Arishok's eyes grow dark – and there is the compliment she was hoping for all along. She swallows. He gestures her to get closer.

Hawke bites her lip and haltingly takes a step after another, till she is standing right in front of him.

”So,” she says, pretending to be way braver than she feels. The Arishok's eyes are still inspecting her. His hand rises. Hawke stares, mesmerized, as a single finger stretches out, and at that moment she realizes that he has actually clipped the sharp claws on his right hand.

_”Oh!”_ she can't help the sound of surprise and warm relief. That is – that is just _sweet_.

The dull tip of the Arishok's middle finger reaches between her thighs, ever so lightly touches her folds, and stops just under her clit, hovering.

Hawke gasps and closes her eyes. She is sure her trembling legs are going to give in, but she forces herself to stay put. 

The blunted claw begins to move slowly along her already swollen lips: first barely touching, just a whisper of a caress - but even that is more than she can bear. With burning shame Hawke feels a rush of heavy wetness between her legs; she doesn't wish to be seen so needy, so turned on in front of someone so controlled.

The Arishok lets out a pleased humming sound. He keeps moving his finger, slowly, slowly, along the wet line, back and forth, opening her up, a bit deeper every time, but not going in. It takes every inch of Hawke's willpower not to grind herself against it; but she can't stop little moans and gasps from escaping her. The fact that his finger is so big isn't helping at all, it is pure torture to feel it gliding against her, without actually filling her.

”Please,” she whispers, ”please, Arishok, please - please -”

He leans forward and inhales deep, visibly enjoying her scent. Hawke grimaces.

_”Please!”_

The Arishok’s hands set on her hips, and then his tongue darts out. He gives her one agonizingly slow, long lick - just to taste her, out of curiosity, probably. The sensation is so strange; the texture definitely rougher than any human tongue. Hawke cries out, and her legs finally buckle. The Arishok catches her easily and pulls her down.

Hawke opens her eyes and meets his. They are very close to each other now, and it strikes her how calm he looks. It isn't surprising, just maybe a little heart-wrenching. She would like to see him crumble a bit, be excited.

“You taste sweet,” he notes. Hawke nods, unable to say anything.

The Arishok cups her breasts, giving them a tentative squeeze. Hawke startles, and her nipples harden immediately. Pleased with this, he gets lower, breathes in her scent again, and takes a breast in his hot mouth: he is sucking the nipple gently, swirling his tongue around, and kneading the soft skin greedily; after a while he turns his attention to the other one. Hawke notices angry red welts appearing on her skin wherever his claws are lightly scratching her, but asking him to stop doesn’t even cross her mind; she is so overwhelmed by his touch, his closeness.

The Arishok begins to rub his head on her torso, as if marking her. She loves it: she chuckles and touches his intimidating horns affectionately, trying not to get impaled in the process. She runs her fingers through his hair, around the base of his horns, and then she lets her hands glide down, stroking his giant arms and shoulders. 

He is beautiful: strange, scary, and alien, but so beautiful. Hawke sighs and keeps on caressing him, marveling at his non-human strength and form. As her tender fingers trace the scars all over his body, she is wondering if he has any feel in them; The Arishok makes an appreciative sound, and nips the skin under her collar bone.

Kiss. Hawke wants to kiss him so bad. She moves aside the thick white hair, which is both silky and coarse, and lifts his face.

A crease appears between the Arishok’s eyebrows.

_Shit_. Hawke hesitates. She gets a distinctive feeling that she is about to do something awfully inappropriate. 

She is going to do it anyway.

She leans closer, and presses her lips on his.

For a moment the Arishok seems unsure what to do: he doesn't pull away, but he doesn't exactly kiss her back either. It is clear that he is uncomfortable with this kind of intimacy. Finally, as if after a careful thinking process, he does soften his mouth a bit, and allows her to slip her tongue in. Hawke instantly turns into a quivering, moaning wreck, and falls on her back on the mattress, pulling him with her.

The Arishok’s mouth is full and surprisingly soft, and he tastes like honeyed tea and spices, with a metallic undertone of blood. Hawke shivers and glides her tongue over his frighteningly sharp teeth, along his lips, around his tongue. She feels like she could do this forever, just this: kiss the Arishok, ever deeper.

Way too soon the Arishok pulls away. He takes a hold of her hair, twists the shiny locks around his wrist, and pulls, forcing her head back. Hawke feels his hungry mouth sliding around her throat and neck; the Arishok is lying partly on top of her now, warm and heavy, and the metal of his numerous earrings feels oddly cool against her jawline. Finally his sharp teeth press firmly against her throat, the crushing bite becoming painful before letting go.

”Good,” he says. 

He gets up.

Stunned, Hawke gasps for air and rubs her throat. For a second she thinks the Arishok has changed his mind about sleeping with her after all. Then she realizes he is removing his smallclothes. She follows his movements, and braces herself for what is to come.

She stares at his cock, mesmerized. Oh.. _Maker_.

It is beautiful. It is huge. It is hard. It is nothing any human female should try and play with. She forces her eyes back to the Arishok's face. Doesn't he look just a little bit smug?

”Right,” Hawke says, her lips trembling a bit. The Arishok gets down on the mattress again, and leans forward, towards her, but Hawke pushes him back, against a pile of cushions. He frowns, but allows it.

Hawke steels her mind and touches him with soft, curious fingers. _Such silky skin_ , she thinks. The Arishok twitches, and a deep, thunderous sound vibrates his chest: a sign of excitement or a warning, hard to say. 

Unwavering, she curls her fingers around him - they won’t reach all the way. She is immediately startled by the remarkable heft of his manhood, as she weighs it in her hand: the thought of the thing entering her is both arousing and absolutely terrifying. It is so massive, so wide. Like everything about him. She swallows and glides her palm along the hot, ridiculous length, all the way down, and then back up – and the Arishok lets her play, perhaps understanding her curiosity.

Hawke bows down, breathes in the pleasant musky scent that lingers in the soft, silvery hair (the only body hair worth mentioning, really, the Qunari truly are very smooth), and gives the underside of his shaft a good lick. The Arishok freezes immediately: she can feel his confusion, his hesitation, but decides to go on. She mouths the tip gently, tasting the mild, salty flavor of precome spreading on her tongue. The Arishok yanks her off and pushes her away.

_”No,”_ he says. Hawke's eyes widen. She clears her throat, a bit offended.

”You know, I am pretty good at this. I won't bite you.”

”The basic act will be enough,” he says, stiffly. Hawke tilts her head, trying to figure out what is happening.

”You don't like blow jobs?”

He turns his head. As far as Hawke can remember, this is the first time during their relationship the Arishok has avoided her eyes. It is unfathomable. Is he being shy? No, he doesn't even know what that means. Ashamed? 

Then it hits her.

”You,” she says in a low, accusing voice, ”are planning on not enjoying this.”

The Arishok nods firmly. He looks calm again, staring straight at her.

”I aim for relief, not for pleasure. Keep it simple, Hawke.”

She swears. She doesn't have to ask: this is about the Qun.

”Here's the thing, Arishok,” she hisses, angry now. ”You go ahead and aim for whatever your precious Qun demands, but I _am_ going to enjoy this. And yes, that means sucking your dick, because it is fucking fabulous, and I've been waiting for this for years, and if you wish to pretend you don't like it, be my fucking guest!”

The expression on the Arishok's face is worth seeing, but Hawke doesn't stop to admire it. She bends down again, and without further warning she opens her mouth, and sucks him in.

The Arishok growls: his powerful body arches against the cushions, and he grabs her by the hair again. For a moment Hawke thinks he is going to pull her off – or maybe cram her head down. She gets a short flashback of a templar who had done just that: he had been wearing his armor, and she had hit her forehead against the metal. She had beat him up. He'd been much nicer after that.

But the Arishok does no such thing. He just rubs her scalp with heavy, hectic fingers, and keeps tugging her hair, as if unable to decide what to do. Hawke smiles and takes him in as far as she can – not an easy task, not even a doable task, really, but she does what she can, even though she feels like she might dislocate her jaw. A shocked gasp escapes from the Arishok. She can feel his body tremble under her, as she starts using both her tongue and fingers. Whatever he said and whatever he aimed for, he isn't fighting her now.

Hawke continues her torture, gentle and relentless. She knows there is no way he can last long, not after all the time he has been without physical contact. And sure enough, soon he grunts, pulls her head up, and next thing Hawke knows, she is lying on her back.

The Arishok stares at her, his pale eyes narrow, his chest heaving. There is a thin, sparkling layer of sweat covering his chest and forehead now. Hawke wipes her swollen mouth, and smiles weakly.

”You liked that?”

”I find it peculiar,” he answers, his voice husky. Hawke shakes her head.

”Not what I was asking.”

”Irrelevant,” he says. He leans over and (to her surprise) kisses her then, a bit warily, maybe shunning his own taste on her lips. Hawke smiles against his lips and answers softly.

So good, she thinks, so fucking good.

The kiss deepens, intensifies, and finally a feral growl erupts from the Arishok's throat. He forces her mouth open and thrusts his tongue in, and it is like someone suddenly set her on fire: she is shaking, she wants him so bad her sex is convulsing, and as she feels his heavy breathing in her mouth, she knows he isn't doing any better. His clawed fingers are squeezing and scratching, but she can take it. His weight is crushing, but she can take it.

The Arishok lands his hand on her mound, swirls his fingertips around, and then glides them between her thighs. With an almost painfully slow movement he splits her lips and pushes a finger inside her. Hawke gasps, surprised, and seizes his shoulders.

“You are tight,” he mumbles, not a small amount of amusement in his voice. Hawke pulls him closer, and buries her burning face in his chest; the Arishok presses his forehead against the top of her head, and his other hand begins to rub her back. 

His thick finger is sliding in and out, slow, steady, relentless. After a while he adds another finger, and then another, in and out, spreading her, rubbing his palm against her clit - rather with the purpose of making the procedure more pleasant, than in serious attempt to get her off. She wails and sinks her nails into his back: he growls, sucking and nipping her earlobes.

”Please,” she whispers again, almost crying: the feeling, even if slightly uncomfortable, is marvelous, but she needs more, more, more. He shakes his head.

”Patience, Hawke” he says, but his body has started grinding against her already, and there is a tremble in his voice.

The Arishok works on her for some time, but finally he pulls his fingers out and moves his massive body on top of her. He is careful not to crush her, though, and supports his weight with one of his elbows. He grabs her under her knee and pulls her down a bit; then he sets one arm around her neck and shoulders. She understands this is to keep her body still.

Hawke feels like she has been enclosed in a small chamber; wherever she looks, all she can see is the Arishok's skin, and muscles, and the white curtain of his hair, rising like walls around her. His face is way above her, so if she wishes to look into his eyes, she has to tilt her head back. Everything feels hot, and velvety, and smells like exotic herbs. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, enjoying the sensation.

The Arishok's length lies against her belly for a moment, hot, large and incredibly heavy. Then she feels him shifting, and it slips between her thighs, throbbing, twitching impatiently now. Hawke lifts her hips, and he rubs the tip against her, sliding up and down, covering himself with her wetness. 

“Now, Hawke,” he murmurs against her temple. “Now I’ll have you.”

He pushes in.

Hawke gasps, taken aback by the dull, stretching pain. Her initial reaction is to fight, to push him away, and hit him in the damned crotch, but she forces herself to stay put.

The Arishok waits. It is hard for him, clearly, but he waits, even though he has barely got the tip in. Hawke lies with closed eyes, lips pressed tightly together, and breathing deep, concentrating.

“All right,” she says finally. “More.”

The Arishok pulls out, gently, gently, then pushes back in, deeper. Out again – and in, deeper yet. He stops for a moment, allowing Hawke to adjust. He does this a few more times; then he suddenly pinches her shoulder sharply, to distract her from the pain, and thrusts all the way in, buried to the hilt.

Hawke cries out. The Arishok ignores her. He stays still, eyes closed, hissing, trembling, apparently trying to get used to the tightness of her body. Hawke swears and makes an attempt to move, but she is firmly pinned to the mattress by his massive bulk, and she only manages to squirm helplessly.

“You.” The Arishok rocks his hips a bit, experimenting, and shakes his head, incredulous. “You truly are so - impossibly - tight.”

“Yeah,” she sounds defiant, breathless. “Or _you_ are ridiculously big. Now _fuck me_.”

The Arishok gives her a small smile, and begins to move: slowly, carefully, retreating and entering with long, steady strokes. Hawke moans and goes soft and boneless under him: any pain she might have been feeling fades, leaving nothing but blinding pleasure.

”Harder,” she whispers. The Arishok obeys, and slams into her with crushing power. Hawke is feeling like a rag doll in his grip: were his arm not around her shoulders, she would be pushed across the room - and yet, she is certain he is still holding back, not wanting to hurt her. Hawke cries out, grabs his horns, and wraps her legs around him. 

She has never felt so filled, she has never felt anyone so close.

The Arishok keeps riding her hard and it is like someone is taking a hammer to her insides: her breasts are swaying along with the ramming movements, her poor thighs are aching, and her hands burning, as the gold bands around his horns are pressing hard into her palms. It is so much, too much, yet so wonderful, and soon enough she begins to feel the first electric impulses waking inside her. 

Hawke squeezes the Arishok tighter, panting, groaning, kissing him wherever she can reach. She feels like she is rising, her muscles arch violently, and then an explosion trembles through her, making her limbs twitch helplessly. She screams. The Arishok presses his hand on her mouth, and keeps it there till she slowly comes down from her climax.

Dazed, she feels him picking up speed again, thrusting into her harder and harder, till she thinks her spine is about to snap, his rhythm getting slightly erratic. His breathing is heavy, painful almost, and the low, guttural sounds he lets out make her realize he is about done.

The Arishok lifts Hawke in the air, arms wrapped around her, almost crushing, and then slams her back to bed as he comes, growling, and sinking his sharp teeth into her shoulder. Afterwards, a couple of slow, almost tender thrusts, then – peace.

Hawke opens her eyes and stares at the ceiling, stunned, shaking.

_Maker._

She is beat and sore, spread open. She can feel the sweat burning in the scratches and tiny wounds all over her body. She can smell the blood.

They stay like that for a while: Hawke lying still, the Arishok panting against her neck. Then, finally, he pulls carefully out of her and sits up, gliding his hand across his sweaty face, pushing his hair aside. Hawke swallows.

“You might have killed me,” she whispers. The Arishok looks at her and lifts an eyebrow. Hawke snorts as she realizes Anders was fucking right: “I think I could use a healer.”

_“Arishokost ebra sala,”_ the Arishok says and grins, his voice so level and normal, it freaks her out a bit. He reaches for the pitcher of water she keeps on her night stand: he swipes a towel lying on a nearby chair, soaks it in water, and begins to clean her wounds. He gently dabs at the scratches on her limbs, breasts, and sides, finally slipping the cool fabric between her legs and wiping her carefully. Hawke follows his movements, unsure and, frankly, shocked by his attentiveness. 

Once done, the Arishok leans over and catches his belt: attached to it there is a small ceramic bottle, decorated with gold inlays. He pops it open and unceremoniously pours about half of it in Hawke’s mouth.

Hawke swallows obediently. She can spot the cool, bitter sting of elfroot she is familiar with, but the Qunari potion is still different from the ones she is used to, thicker and sweeter. She wonders if they’ve added honey to it. With a great relief she can feel the aching in her body recede. She sighs.

“Thank you.” 

The Arishok nods. He lifts the bottle to his lips and pours the rest in his mouth; but instead of swallowing it right away, he sloshes the liquid around - then he positions himself between her thighs, bends down and presses his tongue firmly against her still tender folds.

_“Oh!”_ Hawke startles. The Arishok’s large tongue swirls around, and a cool, pleasant tingle spreads in its wake. She moans softly and smiles, as the feeling is blissful. The gentle touch slides slowly around her inner lips, then slips in between them, and finds her clit; a quick flick, a light suction, and then it is on its way back down, till it finds her entrance and finally pushes in. Hawke laughs and arches against the maddeningly soft intrusion.

“Hey - if you keep that up -” Her sentence it cut short, as his tongue begins to dart in and out of her, making her gasp. After a while the Arishok withdraws his tongue to tease at her clit again. Hawke’s head rolls to the side, as she grabs his hair, sobbing.

“Arishok - please -”

“Pleading again?” he mumbles and nips her gently. He adds some pressure, quickens the pace and licks and sucks her until she begins to tremble and comes, her orgasm deeper and slower this time: a pleasurable surge of warm, pulsing waves, one after another, rather than a single explosion. She lets out a loud moan - the Arishok covers her mouth again.

_“Oh!”_ She cries softly against his hot palm, tasting the salt of his skin. _“Oh -”_

She is barely past her climax, when the Arishok lifts her up without warning and spins her around. Still drowsy, she whimpers and glances at him over her shoulder. He presses his large hand between her shoulder blades, and pushes her face on the mattress.

”Head down, Hawke.”

She obeys and closes her eyes: oh, she could refuse this - but she doesn’t want to.

The Arishok lifts her hips, positions himself between her legs, and pushes her knees further apart. He lets his calloused hand rub her soft, round cheeks, and then she can feel his erection, iron hard now, poking against her skin. He enters her swiftly, gliding in effortlessly this time, takes a good grip on her hips, and begins hammering her with short, fast, powerful thrusts. 

The Arishok leans over and gives a long lick along her spine; Hawke can feel his soft hair tickling her side, and then his hand reaches over, and finds her still swollen clit. He rubs her with small, circular movements. Hawke shakes her head and tries to push his hand away.

“I can’t - Arishok, I can’t -”

“Hawke,” he murmurs against her ear. His fingers move gently, but relentlessly. She sobs and shakes her head again; there is no way, there’s just no way… but he keeps on moving, inside her, on her, keeping her right where he wants her.

Hawke’s third orgasm takes her by surprise: it is short, shallow and intense, with almost an unpleasant sharp edge, and it makes her over-stimulated body shake violently. The Arishok caresses her cheek with his rough thumb, and follows within moments, after a few merciless, teeth-shattering thrusts. He lets out a muffled groan and collapses on Hawke, crushing her under him. 

She whines weakly. He rolls off her.

Hawke is gasping for air, her legs spread, his seed leaking out of her. She can't move a muscle, she just can't. The Arishok is lying next to her, trying to catch his breath as well.

Silence.

After what seems like forever, she can feel the Arishok move, and soon the wet, cool towel is gliding over her heated body again.

“Do you always take such good care of your partner?” Hawke mumbles. The Arishok stops his hand for a moment, as if considering.

“No,” he says. “The tamassrans usually do the cleaning afterwards.” He pauses. “You don’t know our ways and I can see you are exhausted: I don’t mind. You object to this?”

“Maker, no. It is very nice.”

The Arishok hums, dips the other end of the towel in the water, and begins to clean himself. After he is done, he lies back down. He crosses his hands behind his neck, and seems to relax.

Hawke, feeling suddenly silly and shy, can't look at him right away. She waits for a while in deep silence, worrying her lip and playing with a strand of her hair. When she finally turns to face the Arishok, she finds he is staring at her, his expression is his usual reserved mask, his darkened eyes now almost the color of copper in the dim firelight. 

_Do it_ , she commands herself. _Go snuggle._

Hawke takes a deep breath, crawls slowly, painfully, over, and buries herself against his side. Somehow this gesture takes much more courage than having sex with him. She waits with tightly closed eyes, her heart racing.

She can feel the Arishok's hesitation. But then he moves slightly, and wraps his arm around her.

”You did good,” he rumbles. She sighs and relaxes, while a relieved lightness takes over. She lets her finger glide along his collarbone, caressing a scar.

”Did you like it?”

”If it makes any difference, yes.”

Hawke blushes and buries her face. ”I thought it was amazing.” She pauses for a moment. “However... and I am not complaining, but I must say, you are _not_ the most tender lover I've ever had.”

A human male might ask how many she has had then. Or if they were any good, better than him. But this is not the Arishok’s way. He lifts her chin with a sharp, shiny claw.

”I caused you pain.”

Not an apology: a statement. Hawke nods.

”I've experienced worse.”

”Yes, you have.”

Hawke looks at the Arishok, and all of a sudden she is overwhelmed by a sudden urge to kiss him. She needs a connection, she yearns for kindness, for solace, after what happened to her poor body. She lifts her hand, and lays it on his cheek. She caresses his face. He allows it, but she can tell he is alerted.

_I don't care_ , she thinks. Hawke reaches up and carefully covers his lips with her mouth. She kisses him softly, slow and deep, with breathtaking tenderness, and terrifying intimacy. She kisses him, and kisses him... and finally she feels the Arishok melting and responding. He pulls her deeper in his arms and wraps himself around her, like a protective shield, and she cherishes the feeling of his warm skin and impossible muscles all around her.

The kiss breaks. Hawke opens her eyes, breathless, and looks into his. Golden irises, pupils dilated and warm. There are so many things she wants to say - things she can’t and daren’t say, and it is so overwhelming - so -

“Just kiss me again,” she whispers, desperately. The Arishok touches her face and obeys.

 

***

 

”So... is your head clear now?”

Hawke sounds innocent enough. But there might be a little sting there. The Arishok decides to ignore it: he focuses and contemplates.

Is his head clear?

He has attended to his need. He is… relieved. Satisfied, even. And the act itself was most remarkable, it has never felt so good. Never.

Which is exactly what he didn't want.

The Arishok sighs. He is a practical man, at least in some things, and extensive pleasure is something he can forgive himself. Unfortunately... the reason why the act felt so extraordinary is not lost on him. It is not just the little creative quirks Hawke performed. It is not her tight, fascinating body. It is the emotions involved.

They are still there: the desire to touch her, to hold her, the forbidden, tempting whispers in the back of his mind. _Selfish_ thoughts. _Selfish_ desires. He tries to force them aside.

No further than this. This should be, could be nothing more.

You know what to do.

Alienate her.

Distant yourself.

_You know what to do._

Except that he… can’t do that. Not like this, not right now. He needs time: he will find his peace again, he always does, things will take care of themselves, he knows. Just - not yet. It is all too tender, too raw still, and Hawke deserves better.

“No,” he says. “My head is not clear.” Hawke stirs, uneasy.

“Regrets?”

“No.” 

It is true enough. Close enough. The Arishok pulls Hawke gently on his chest, and examines her carefully. Her eyes are so blue. Hazy - happy. His nostrils flare.

“I hope we remain friends,” she says. There is a worried undertone, although she tries to hide it. “I don’t want things to change between us.”

Oh, but things have changed. How can he ever look at her again without thinking about the feel of her mouth, and the warmth of her body - how can he ever look at her again, and not want this?

“We will remain friends,” he says, and leaves the words hanging. He touches her lower lip, then lets his finger glide down to her throat. He draws a slow circle around a nasty-looking bite mark. “... _kadan_.”

Hawke tilts her head and looks curious. The Arishok groans in his mind. 

Perhaps he shouldn’t have said it: there is a possibility of misunderstanding. But it has been on his mind for so long, it has been _a fact_ for so long: it must be said.

He presses his hand on Hawke’s chest, the other one on his own. 

“It means that we have a special bond of friendship.” He stops, hesitates. “That you are in my heart.” Hawke stares at him, delighted, mouth agape. Nevertheless, the Arishok is pretty sure she doesn’t quite understand - nor appreciate - the gesture enough. “It is not what you call love confession,” he specifies quickly, just to be on the safe side. As if he hasn’t been out of the safe side for years now. Such a fool he is. Hawke snorts - but she is smiling.

“Thank you.” She kisses him softly. “I am honored.”

“As one should.”

They lie together in amiable silence, listening to each other’s breathing. The Arishok lets his fingers run along Hawke’s shoulder and arm. He is thinking how silky her skin is. He is thinking how he wishes he could stop the time, how he wishes -

“And - you still believe that we shouldn’t do this again?” Hawke kisses his chest, clearly too scared and upset to look straight at him. “I mean, I know, _I know_ \- but it was so - oh!”

It is almost a sob. Of course it is. The Arishok smooths her hair and takes a deep, painful breath. And then he speaks, but he feels foolish just as he says it, knowingly sealing his defeat:

”We shall see.”

She relaxes a bit. Her pink, shiny tongue flicks his nipple. 

”Will you spend the night?”

He can not answer. The idea is absurd: he has never spent the night, it is simply not done. But of course Hawke, in her typical way, takes that as a yes. She sighs happily and wraps herself around him, not unlike those large, green snakes in Seheron, suffocating him with her cursed warmth and softness.

The Arishok breathes in the smell of her hair, and something painful and possessive grabs at his heart.

_Mine_ , he thinks. And although he knows that the thought is foolish and plainly impossible, he can’t help feeling happy this now - whatever it is - exists. He closes his eyes, listening to the beat of his lover’s heart, smiling into her warm skin.

_Mine._ For now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Arishokost ebra sala._ \- The Arishok will see to it.
> 
>  
> 
> *whew!* AND IT IS DONE. 
> 
> Yes, I know... an open ending. However, I hope you find it somewhat _satisfying_. :) Also, as it happens, I am working on sequel(s), so quite likely there will be more Arishawke... (I have a couple of Adoribull fics I am planning on getting out first since they are pretty much done, but a sequal for this story shouldn't be too far either.)
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this story! I truly value every reader, every kudos, and every comment I get – Thank You So Much for making this worthwhile! <3


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